JCJI 

•  Ji  I 


SOCIETY  AND    SOLITUDE. 


TWELVE  CHAPTERS. 


BY 


KALPH    WALDO    EMEKSON, 


uHKZ**'**  *• 

i\L'^  iT V«  *-v  §  hd^^  s^'iHt^  -          /  \    • 


BOSTON: 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 
1876. 


fint«red  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON, 
tu  tne  Clem's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


ONTENTS. 


PAQB 

SOCIETY  ANI>  SOLITUDE 1 

CIVILIZATION 15 

ART       .        .        i 31 

ELOQUENCE 53 

DOMESTIC  LIFE 91 

FARMING .  121 

WORKS  AND  DAYS 139 

BOOKS 167 

CLUBS 199 

COURAGE 225 

SUCCESS 251 

OLD  AGE  .  279 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE, 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

1  FELL  in  with  a  humorist,  on  my  travels,  wno 
had  in  his  chamber  a  cast  of  the  Rondanini  Me 
dusa,  and  who  assured  me  that  the  name  which 
that  fine  work  of  art  bore  in  the  catalogues  was 
a  misnomer,  as  he  was  convinced  that  the  sculp 
tor  who  carved  it  intended  it  for  Memory,  the 
mother  of  the  Muses.  In  the  conversation  that 
followed,  my  new  friend  made  some  extraordinary 
confessions.  "  Do  you  not  see,"  he  said,  "  the 
penalty  of  learning,  and  that  each  of  these  schol 
ars  whom  you  have  met  at  S ,  though  he  were 

to  be  the  last  man,  would,  like  the  executioner  in 
Hood's  poem,  guillotine  the  last  but  one  ?  "  He 
added  many  lively  remarks,  but  his  evident  ear 
nestness  engaged  my  attention,  and,  in  the  weeks 
that  followed,  we  became  better  acquainted.  He 
had  good  abilities,  a  genial  temper,  and  no  vices ; 
but  he  had  one  defect, — lie_could  not  speakjnj&gfl 
I  {tone  of  the  people.  There  was  some  paralysis  on  I ' 
his  wilT7^su~ch~~that,  when  he  met  men  on  common 
terms,  he  spoke  weakly,  and  from  the  point,  like  a 
flighty  girl.  His  consciousness  of  the  fault  made  it 


4  SOCIETY  AND   SOLITUDE 

worse.  He  envied  every  drover  and  lumberman 
in  the  tavern  their  manly  speech.  He  coveted 
Mirabeau's  don  terrible  de  la  familiarite,  believing 
that  he  whose  sympathy  goes  lowest  is  the  man 
from  whom  kings  have  the  most  to  fear.  For  him 
self,  he  declared  that  he  could  not  get  enough  alone 
to  write  a  letter  to  a  friend.  He  left  the  city ;  he 
hid  himself  in  pastures.  The  solitary  .river  was 
not  solitary  enough ;  the  sun  and  moon  put  him 
out.  When  he  bought  a  house,  the  first  thing  he 
did  was  to  plant  trees.  He  could  not  enough  con 
ceal  himself.  Set  a  hedge  here  ;  set  oaks  there,  — 
trees  behind  trees ;  above  all,  set  evergreens,  for 
they  will  keep  a  secret  all  the  year  round.  The 
most  agreeable  compliment  you  could  pay  him  was, 
to  imply  that  you  had  not  observed  him  in  a  house 
or  a  street  where  you  had  met  him.  Whilst  he  suf 
fered  at  being  seen  where  he  was,  he  consoled  him 
self  with  the  delicious  thought  of  the  inconceivable 
number  of  places  where  he  was  not.  All  he  wished 
of  his  tailor  was  to  provide  that  sober  mean  of 
color  and  cut  which  would  never  detain  the  eye 
for  a  moment.  He  went  to  Vienna,  to  Smyrna,  to 
London.  In  all  the  variety  of  costumes,  a  carni 
val,  a  kaleidoscope  of  clothes,  to  Jiis  horror  ho 
could  never  discover  .a  man  in  the  street  who  wore 
anything  like  his  own  dress.  He  would  have  given 
his  soul  for  the  ring  of  Gyges.  His  dismay  at  hia 
visibility  had  blunted  the  fears  of  mortality.  "  Do 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE.  5 

you  think,"  he  said,  "I  am  in  such  great  terror  of 
being  shot,  —  I,  who  am  only  waiting  to  shuffle  off 
my  corporeal  jacket,  to  slip  away  into  the  back 
stars,  and  put  diameters  of  the  solar  system  and 
sidereal  orbits  between  me  and  all  souls, —  there 
to  wear  out  ages  in  solitude,  and  forget  memory 
itself,  if  it  be  possible  ?  "  He  had  a  remorse  run 
ning  to  despair,  of  his  social  gaucheries,  and  walked 
miles  and  miles  to  get  the  twitchings  out  of  his  face, 
the  starts  and  shrugs  out  of  his  arms  and  shoulders. 
God  may  forgive  sins,  he  said,  but  awkwardness 
has  no  forgiveness  in  heaven  or  earth.  He  admired 
in  Newton,  not  so  much  his  theory* of  the  moon,  as 
his  letter  to  Collins,  in  which  he  forbade  him  to 
insert  his  name  with  the  solution  of  the  problem  in 
the  "  Philosophical  Transactions  "  :  "  It  would  per 
haps  increase  my  acquaintance,  the  thing  which  I 
chiefly  study  to  decline." 

These  conversations  led  me  somewhat  later  to 
the  knowledge  of  similar  cases,  and  to  the  dis 
covery  that  they  are  not  of  very  infrequent  occur 
rence.  Few  substances  are  found  pure  in  nature. 
Those  constitutions  which  can  bear  in  cpen  day 
the  rough  dealing  of  the  world  must  be  of  that 
mean  and  average  structure,  —  such  as  iron  and 
salt,  atmospheric  air,  and  water.  But  there  are 
metals,  like  potassium  and  sodium,  which,  to  be 
kept  pure,  must  be  kept  under  naphtha.  Such  are 
the  talents  determined  on  some  specialty,  which 


6  SOCIETY  AND   SOLITUDE. 

a  culminating  civilization  fosters  in  the  heart  of 
great  cities  and  in  royal  chambers.  Nature  pro 
tects  her  own  work.  To  the  culture  of  the  world, 
an  Archimedes,  a  Newton  is  indispensable  ;  so  she 
guards  them  by  a  certain  aridity.  If  these  had 
been  good  fellows,  fond  of  dancing,  port,  and  clubs, 
we  should  have  had  no  "  Theory  of  the  Sphere," 
and  no  "  Principia."  f(  They  had  that  necessity  of 
isolation  which  genius  feels.  Each  must  stand  on 
his  glass  tripod,  if  he  would  keep  his  electricity. 

__ Even  Swedenborg,  whose   theory  of  the  universe 

is  based  on  affection,  and  who  reprobates  to  weari 
ness  the  danger  and  vice  of  pure  intellect,  is  con 
strained  to  make  an  extraordinary  exception : 
"  There  are  also  angels  who  do  not  live  consoci- 
ated,  but  separate,  house  and  house ;  these  dwell 
in  the  midst  of  heaven,  because  they  are  the  best 

of  angels. " 

We  have  known  many  fine  geniuses  with  that 
imperfection  that  they  cannot  do  anything  useful, 
not  so  much  as  write  one  clean  sentence.  'T  is 
worse,  and  tragic,  that  no  man  is  fit  for  society 
who  has  fine  traits.  At  a  distance,  he  is  admired ; 
but  bring  him  hand  to  hand,  he  is  a  cripple.  One 
protects  himself  by  solitude,  and  one  by  courtesy, 
and  one  by  an  acid,  worldly  manner,  —  each  con 
cealing  how  he  can  the  thinness  of  his  skin  and  his 
incapacity  for  strict  association.  But  there  is  no 
remedy  that  can  reach  the  heart  of  the  disease,  but 


SOCIETY  AND   SOLITUDE.  7 

either  habits  of  self-reliance  that  should  go  in  prac 
tice  to  making  the  man  independent  of  the  human 
race,  or  else  a  religion  of  love.  Now  he  hardly 
seems  entitled  to  marry  ;  for  how  can  he  protect 
a  woman,  who  cannot  protect  himself? 

We  pray  to  be  conventional.  But  the  wary 
Heaven  takes  care  you  shall  not  be,  if  there  is  any 
thing  good  in  you.  Dante  was  very  bad  company, 
and  was  never  invited  to  dinner.  Michel  Angelo 
had  a  sad,  sour  time  of  it.  The  ministers  of  beauty 
are  rarely  beautiful  in  coaches  and  saloons.  Colum 
bus  discovered  no  isle  or  key  so  lonely  as  himself. 
Yet  each  of  these  potentates  saw  well  the  reason 
of  his  exclusion.  Solitary  was  he  ?  Why,  yes ; 
but  his  society  was  limited  only  by  the  amount  of 
brain  Nature  appropriated  in  that  age  to  carry  on 
the  government  of  the  world.  "  If  I  stay,"  said 
Dante,  when  there  was  question  of  going  to 
Rome,  "  who  will  go  ?  and  if  I  go,  who  wiL' 
stay  ?  " 

But  the  necessity  of  solitude  is  deeper  than  we 
have  said,  and  is  organic.  I  have  seen  many  a 
philosopher  whose  world  is  large  enough  for  only 
one  person.  He  affects  to  be  a  good  companion ; 
but  we  are  still  surprising  his  secret,  that  he  means 
and  needs  to  impose  his  system  on  all  the  rest. 
The  determination  of  each  is  from  all  the  others, 
like  that  of  each  tree  up  into  free  space.  'T  is  no 
wonder,  when  each  has  his  whole  head,  our  societies 


SOCIETY  AND   SOLITUDE. 

should  be  so  small.  Like  President  Tyler,  our 
party  falls  from  us  every  day,  and  we  must  ride  in 
a  sulky  at  last.  Dear  heart !  take  it  sadly  home  to 
thee,  —  there  is  no  co-operation.  We  begin  with 
friendships,  and  all  our  youth  is  a  reconnoitring 
and  recruiting  of  the  holy  fraternity  they  shall  com 
bine  for  the  salvation  of  men.  But  so  the  remoter 
stars  seem  a  nebula  of  united  light ;  yet  there  is  no 
group  which  a  telescope  will  not  resolve,  and  the 
dearest  friends  are  separated  by  impassable  gulfs. 
The  co-operation  is  involuntary,  and  is  put  upon 
us  by  the  Genius  of  Life,  who  reserves  this  as  a 
part  of  his  prerogative.  'T  is  fine  for  us  to  talk  , 
we  sit  and  muse,  and  are  serene  and  complete  ; 
but  the  moment  we  meet  with  anybody,  each  be 
comes  a  fraction. 

Though  the  stuff  of  tragedy  and  of  romances  is  in 
a  moral  union  of  two  superior  persons,  whose  confi 
dence  in  each  other  for  long  years,  out  of  sight,  and 
in  sight,  and  against  all  appearances,  is  at  last  justi 
fied  by  victorious  proof  of  probity  to  gods  and  men, 
causing  joyful  emotions,  tears  and  glory,  —  though 
there  be  for  heroes  this  moral  union,  yet,  they,  too, 
are  as  far  off  as  ever  from  an  intellectual  union,  and 
the  moral  union  is  for  comparatively  low  and  exter 
nal  purposes,  like  the  co-operation  of  a  ship's  company 
or  of  a  fire-club.  But  how  insular  and  pathetically 
solitary  are  all  the  people  we  know  !  Nor  dare  they 
tell  what  they  think  of  each  other,  when  they  meet 


SOCIETY   ASD   SOLITUDE.  9 

in  the  street.  We  have  a  fine  right,  to  be  sure,  to 
taunt  men  of  the  world  with  superficial  and  treach 
erous  courtesies  I 

Such  is  the  tragic  necessity  which  strict  science 
finds  underneath  our  domestic  and  neighborly  life, 
irresistibly  driving  each  adult  soul  as  with  whips  into 
the  desert,  and  making  our  warm  covenants  senti 
mental  and  momentary.  We  must  infer  that  the 
ends  of  thought  were  peremptory,  if  they  were  to  be 
secured  at  such  ruinous  cost.  They  are  deeper  than 
can  be  told,  and  belong  to  the  immensities  and  eter 
nities.  ^  They  reach  down  to  that  depth  where  society 
itself  originates  and  disappears,  —  where  the  ques 
tion  is,  Which  is  first,  man  or  men  ?  —  where  the 
individual  is  losJLiruhis  source. 

But  this  banishment  to  the  rocks  and  echoes  no 
metaphysics  can  make  right  or  tolerable.  This  re^ 
sult_is  so  against  nature,  such  a  half-  view,  that  it 

and  experi 


ence.  "  A  man  is  born  by  the  side  of  his  father, 
and  there  he  remains."  A  man  must  be  clothed 
with  society,  or  we  shall  feel  a  certain  bareness  and 
poverty,  as  of  a  displaced  and  unfurnished  member. 
He  is  to  be  dressed  in  arts  and  institutions,  as  well  as 
in  body-garments.  Now  and  then  a  man  exquisitely 
made  can  live  alone,  and  must  ;  but  coop  up  most 
men,  and  you  undo  them.  "  The  king  lived  and 
ate  in  his  hall  with  men,  and  understood  men,"  said 
Selden.  When  a  young  barrister  said  to  the  late 


10  SOCIETY   AND   SOLITUDE. 

Mr.  Mason,  "  I  keep  my  chamber  to  read  law,  — 
"  Read  law  !  "  replied  the  veteran,  "  't  is  in  the  court 
room  you  must  read  law."  Nor  is  the  rule  other 
wise  for  literature.  If  you  would  learn  to  write, 
*t  is  in  the  street  you  must  learn  it.  Both  for  the 
vehicle  and  for  the  aims  of  fine  arts,  you  must  fre 
quent  the  public  square.  The  j>eople,  and  not  the 
college,  is  lhejmle_r.!s.  liome..  A  scholar  is  a  candle 
which  the  love  and  desire  of  all  men  will  light. 
Never' nis  lands  or  his  rents,  but  the  power  to  charm 
the  disguised  soul  that  sits  veiled  under  this  bearded 
and  that  rosy  visage  is  his  rent  and  ration.  His 
products  are  as  needful  as  those  of  the  baker  or 
the  weaver.  Society  cannot  do  without  cultivated 
men.  As  soon  as  the  first  wants  are  satisfied,  the 
higher  wants  become  imperative. 

'Tis  hard  to  mesmerize  ourselves,  to  whip  our 
own  top  5  buMhrough  sympathy  we  are  capable  of 
energy  and  endurance.  Concert  fires  people  to  a 
certain  fury  of  performance  they  can  rarely  reach 
alone..  Here  is  the  use  of  society :  it  is  so  easy 
with  the  £ceaLJo  be  great ;  so  easy_to  come  .up  to 
an  existing  standard  ;  —  as  easy  as  it  is  to  the  lover 
to  swim  to  his  maiden  through  waves  so  grim  be 
fore.  Iheubfinefits.  of.  affection  are  immense  ;  and 
the_one  event  which  never  loses  its  romance  is  tlie~j 
encounter  with  superior  persons  on  terms  allowing 
t.hp  happiest  intercourse. 

It  by  no  means  follows  that  we  are  not  fit  for. 


SOCIETY   AND   SOLITUDE.  H 

society,  because  soirees,  are  tedious,  and  because 
ih$i  soiree  finds  us  tedious.  A  backwoodsman,  who 
had  been  sent  to  the  university,  told  me  that,  when 
he  heard  the  best-bred  young  men  at  the  law-school 
talk  together,  he  reckoned  himself  a  boor;  but  when 
ever  he  caught  them  apart,  and  had  one  to  himself 
alone,  then  they  were  the  boorSj  and  he  the  better 
man.  And  if  we  recall  the  rare  hours  when  we  en 
countered  the  best  persons,  we  then  found  ourselves, 
and  then  first  society  seemed  to  exist.  That  was 
society,  though  in  the  transom  of  a  brig,  or  on  the 
Florida  Keys. 

A  cold,  sluggish  blood  thinks  it  has  not  facts 
enough  to  the  purpose,  and  must  decline  its  turn  in 
the  conversation.  But  they  who  speak  have  no 
more,  —  have  less.  Tis  not  new,  facts  that  avail, 
bat  the  heat  to  dissolve  everyJK^y's  farj-.g.  Heat 
puts  you  in  right  relation  with  magazines  of  facts. 
The  capital  defect  of  cold,  arid  natures  is  the  want 
of  animal  spirits.  They  seem  a  power  incredible, 
as  if  God  should  raise  the  dead.  The  recluse  wit 
nesses  what  others  perform  by  their  aid,  with  a  kind 
of  fear.  It  is  as  much  out  of  his  possibility  as  the 
prowess  of  Coaur-de-Lion,  or  an  Irishman's  day's- 
work  on  the  railroad.  'Tissaid^  the  present  and. 
the  future  are  alwajs_jjyals.  Ajnimal  spirits  con? 
of  thfl  rasei^  and  their  feats  are 


like  the  structure  of  a,  pyramid.     Their  result  is  a 
lordj  a  general,  or  a  boon  companion.     Before  these, 


12  SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

what  a  base  mendicant  is  Memory  with  his  leathern 
badge  1  But  this  genial  heat  is  latent  in  all  consti 
tutions,  and  is  disengaged  only  by  the  friction  of 
society.  As  Bacon  said  of  manners,  "  To  obtain 
them,  it  only  needs  not  to  despise  them,"  so  we  say 
of  animal  spirits,  that  they  are  the  spontaneous  pro 
duct  of  health  and  of  a  social  habit.  li  For  behavior, 
men  learn  it,  as  they  take  diseases,  one  of  another." 

But  the  people  are  to  be  taken  in  very  small 
doses.  If  solitude  is  proud,  so  is  society  vulgar. 
In  society,  high  advantages  are  set  down  to  the  in 
dividual  as  disqualifications.  We  sink  as  easily  as 
we  rise,  through  sympathy.  So  many  men  whom  I 
know  are  degraded  by  their  sympathies,  their  native 
aims  being  high  enough,  but  their  relation  all  too 
tender  to  the  gross  people  about  them.  Men  can 
not  afford  to  live  together  on  their  merits,  and  tney 
adjust  themselves  by  their  demerits,  —  by  their 
love  of  gossip,  or  by  sheer  tolerance  and  animal 
good-nature.  They  untune  and  dissipate  the  brave 
aspirant. 

The  remedy  is^  to  reinforce  each  of  these  moods 
from  the  other.  K  Conversation  will  not  corrupt  us, 
if  we  come  to  the  assembly  in  our  own  garb  and 
speech,  and  with  the  energy  of  health  to  select 
what  is  ours  and  reject  what  is  not.  Society  we 
must  have ;  but  let  it  be  society,  and  not  exchan 
ging  news,  or  eating  from  the  same  dish.  Is  it  soci 
ety  to  sit  in  one  of  your  chairs  ?  I  cannot  go  to  the 


SOCIETY  AND   SOLITUDE.  13 

houses  of  my  nearest  relatives,  because  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  alone.  Society  exists  by  chemical  affinity, 
and  not  otherwise.  ] 

Put  any  company  of  people  together  with  freedom 
for  conversation,  and  a  rapid  self-distribution  takes 
place,  into  sets  and  pairs.  The  best  are  accused  of 
exclusiveness.  It  would  be  more  true  to  say,  they 
separate  as  oil  from  water,  as  children  from  old 
people,  without  love  or  hatred  in  the  matter,.  eaclL 
seeking  his  like  ;  and  any  interference  with  the 
affinities  would  produce  constraint  and  suffocation. 

!  experiment.      I  know 


that  my  friend  can  talk  eloquently  ;  you  know  that 
he  cannot  articulate  a  sentence  :  we  have  seen  him 
in  different  company.  Assort  your  party,  or  invite 
none.  Put  Stubbs  and  Coleridge,  Quintilian  and 
Aunt  Miriam,  into  pairs,  and  you  make  them  all 
wretched.  'T  is  an  extempore  Sing-Sing  built  in  a 
parlor.  Leave  them  to  seek  their  own  mates,  and 
they  will  be  as  merry  as  sparrows. 

A  higher  civility  will  re-establish  in  our  customs 
a  certain  reverence  which  we  have  lost.  What  to 
do  with  these  brisk  young  men  who  break  through 
all  fences,  and  make  themselves  at  home  in  every 
house  ?  I  find  out  in  an  instant  if  my  companion 
does  not  want  me,  and  ropes  cannot  hold  me  when 
my  welcome  is  gone.  One  would  think  that  the 
affinities  would  pronounce  themselves  with  a  surer 
reciprocity. 


14  SOCIETY  ANP   SOLITUDE. 

Here  again,  as  so  often,  Nature  delights 


between  extremp.  anfracrotmmsr  and  our  safety  is 
in  the  skill  with  whichjvve  keepj^Tg^diagonal  line. 
Solitude  is  impracticable,  anj^ocjet^jPatfl],  "We" 
must  keep  our  head  in  the  one  and  our  handsjn 
the_other.  \  The  conditions  are  met,  if  we  keep  our 
independence,  yet  do  not  lose  our  sympathy;  These 
wonderful  horses  need  to  be  driven  by  fine  hands. 
We  require  such  a  solitude  as  shall  hold  us  to  its 
revelations  when  we  are  in  the  street  and  in  palaces  ; 
for  most  men  are  cowed  in  society,  and  say  good 
things  to  you  in  private,  but  will  not  stand  to  them 
in  public.  But  let  us  not  be  the  victims  of  words. 
.Society  and  solitude  are  deceptive  names,  "it  is  not 
the  circumstance  of  seeing  more  or  fewer  people, 
but  the  readiness  of  sympathy,  that  imports  ;  and  a 
sound  mind  will  derive  its  principles  from  insight, 
with  ever  a  purer  ascent  to  the  sufficient  and  abso- 
hite  right,  and  will  accept  society  as  the  natural 
in  which  they  are  to  be  applied. 


I 


CIVILIZATION. 


CIVILIZATION, 

A  CERTAIN  degree  of  progress  from  the  rudest 
state  in  which  man  is  found,  —  a  dweller  in  caves, 
or  on  trees,  like  an  ape,  —  a  cannibal,  and  eater  of 
pounded  snails,  worms,  and  offal,  —  a  certain  de 
gree  of  progress  from  this  extreme  is  called  Civili 
zation.  It  is  a  vague,  complex  name,  of  many 
degrees.  Nobody  has  attempted  a  definition.  Mr. 
Guizot,  writing  a  book  on  the  subject,  does  not.  It 
implies  the  evolution  of  a  highly  organized  man, 
brought  to  supreme  delicacy  of  sentiment,  as  in 
practical  power,  religion,  liberty,  sense  of  honor, 
and  taste.  In  the  hesitation  to  define  what  it  is, 
we  usually  suggest  it  by  negations.  A  nation  that 
has  no  clothing,  no  iron,  no  alphabet,  no  marriage, 
no  arts  of  peace,  no  abstract  thought,  we  call  bar 
barous.  And  after  many  arts  are  invented  or  im 
ported,  as  among  the  Turks  and  Moorish  nations, 
it  is  often  a  little  complaisant  to  call  them  civil 
ized. 

Each  nation  grows  after  its  own  genius,  and  has 
a  civilization  of  its  own.  The  Chinese  and  Japan 
ese,  though  each  complete  in  his  way,  is  different 


18  CIVILIZATION. 

from  the  man  of  Madrid  or  the  man  of  New  York. 
The  term  imports  a  mysterious  progress.  In  the 
brutes  is  none ;  and  in  mankind  to-day  the  savage 
tribes  are  gradually  extinguished  rather  than  civil 
ized.  The  Indians  of  this  country  have  not  learned 
the  white  man's  work ;  and  in  Africa,  the  negro  of 
to-day  is  the  negro  of  Herodotus.  In  other  races 
the  growth  is  not  arrested ;  but  the  like  progress 
that  is  made  by  a  boy  "  when  he  cuts  his  eye- 
teeth,"  as  we  say,  —  childish  illusions  passing  daily 
away,  and  he  seeing  things  really  and  comprehen 
sively,  —  is  made  by  tribes.  It  is  the  learning  the 
secret  of  cumulative  power,  of  advancing  on  one's 
self.  It  implies  a  facility  of  association,  power  to 
compare,  the  ceasing  from  fixed  ideas.  The  Indian 
is  gloomy  and  distressed  when  urged  to  depart  from 
his  habits  and  traditions.  He  is  overpowered  by 
the  gaze  of  the  white,  and  his  eye  sinks.  The  oc 
casion  of  one  of  these  starts  of  growth  is  always 
some  novelty  that  astounds  the  mind,  and  provokes 
it  to  dare  to  change.  Thus  there  is  a  Cadmus,  a 
Pytheas,  a  Manco  Capac  at  the  beginning  of  each 
improvement,  —  some  superior  foreigner  importing 
new  and  wonderful  arts,  and  teaching  them.  Of 
course,  he  must  not  know  too  muwh,  but  must  have 
the  sympathy,  language,  and  ^ods  of  those  he 
\  would  inform.  But  chiefly  the  ^a-shore  has  been 
the  point  of  departure  to  knowledge,  as  to  com 
merce.  The  most  advanced  nations  are  always 


CIVILIZATION.  19 

those  who  navigate  the  most.  The  power  which 
the  sea  requires  in  the  sailor  makes  a  man  of  him 
very  fast,  and  the  change  of  shores  and  popula 
tion  clears  his  head  of  much  nonsense  of  his  wio> 

o 

warn. 

Where  shall  we  hegin  or  end  the  list  of  those 
feats  of  liberty  and  wit,  each  of  which  feats  made 
an  epoch  of  history  ?  Thus,  the  effect  of  a  framed 
or  stone  house  is  immense  on  the  tranquillity,  power, 
and  refinement  of  the  builder.  A  man  in  a  cave 
or  in  a  camp,  a  nomad,  will  die  with  no  more  estate 
than  the  wolf  or  the  horse  leaves.  But  so  simple 
a  labor  as  a  house  being  achieved,  his  chief  enemies 
are  kept  at  bay.  He  is  safe  from  the  teeth  of  wild 
animals,  from  frost,  sun-stroke,  and  weather  ;  and 
fine  faculties  begin  to  yield  their  fine  harvest.  In 
vention  and  art  are  born,  manners  and  social  beauty 
and  delight.  'T  is  wonderful  how  soon  a  piano 
gets  into  a  log-hut  on  the  frontier.  You  would 
think  they  found  it  under  a  pine-stump.  With  it 
comes  a  Latin  grammar,  —  and  one  of  those  tow- 
head  boys  has  written  a  hymn  on  Sunday.  Now 
let  colleges,  now  let  senates  take  heed  !  for  here  is 
one  who,  opening  these  fine  tastes  on  the  basis  of 
the  pioneer's  iron  constitution,  will  gather  all  their 
laurels  in  his  strong  hands. 

When  the  Indian  trail  gets  widened,  graded, 
and  bridged  to  a  good  road,  there  is  a  benefactor, 
there  is  a  missionary,  a  pacificator,  a  wealth-bringer, 


20  CIVILIZATION. 

a  maker  of  markets,  a  vent  for  industry.  Anothet 
step  in  civility  is  the  change  from  war,  hunting,  and 
pasturage  to  agriculture.  Our  Scandinavian  fore 
fathers  have  left  us  a  significant  legend  to  convey 
their  sense  of  the  importance  of  this  step.  "  There 
was  once  a  giantess  who  had  a  daughter,  and  the 
child  saw  a  husbandman  ploughing  in  the  field. 
Then  she  ran  and  picked  him  up  with  her  finger  and 
thumb,  and  put  him  and  his  plough  and  his  oxen 
into  her  apron,  and  carried  them  to  her  mother,  and 
said,  '  Mother,  what  sort  of  a  beetle  is  this  that  I 
found  wriggling  in  the  sand  ?  '  But  the  mother 
said,  4  Put  it  away,  my  child  ;  we  must  begone  out 
of  this  land,  for  these  people  will  dwell  in  it.'  " 
Another  success  is  the  post-office,  with  its  educating 
energy  augmented  by  cheapness  and  guarded  by  a 
certain  religious  sentiment  in  mankind  ;  so  that  the 
power  of  a  wafer  or  a  drop  of  wax  or  gluten  to  guard 
a  letter,  as  it  flies  over  sea,  over  land,  and  comes  to 
its  address  as  if  a  battalion  of  artillery  brought  it,  1 
look  upon  as  a  fine  metre  of  civilization. 

The  division  of  labor,  the  multiplication  of  the 
arts  of  peace,  which  is  nothing  but  a  large  allowance 
to  each  man  to  choose  his  work  according  to  his  fac 
ulty, —  to  live  by  his  better  hand, — -fills  the  State 
with  useful  and  happy  laborers ;  and  they,  creating 
demand  by  the  very  temptation  of  their  productions, 
are  rapidly  and  surely  rewarded  by  good  sale  :  and 
what  a  police  and  ten  commandments  their  work 


CIVILIZATION.  21 

thus  becomes.  So  true  is  Dr.  Johnson's  remark 
that  "  men  are  seldom  more  innocently  employed 
than  when  th§y  are.  making  money." 

The  skilful  combinations  of  civil  government, 
though  they  usually  follow  natural  leadings,  as  the 
lines  of  race,  language,  religion,  and  territory,  yet 
require  wisdom  and  conduct  in  the  rulers,  and  in 
their  result  delight  the  imagination.  u  We  see  in 
surmountable  multitudes  obeying,  in  opposition  to 
their  strongest  passions,  the  restraints  of  a  power 
which  they  scarcely  percelve^nd  the  crimes  of  a 
single  individual  marked  and  punished  at  the  dis 
tance -<£  half  the  earth."  * 

Right  position  of  woman  in  the  State  is  another 
index.  Poverty  and  industry  with  a  healthy  mind 
read  very  easily  the  laws  of  humanity,  and  lovo 
them  :  place  the  sexes  in  right  relations  of  mutual 
respect,  and  a  severe  morality  gives  that  essential 
charm  to  woman  which  educates  all  that  is  delicate, 
poetic,  and  self-sacrificing,  breeds  courtesy  and 
learning,  conversation  and  wit,  in  her  rough  mate  ; 
so  that  I  have  thought  a  sufficient  measure  of  civil 
ization  is  the  influence  of  good  women. 

Another  measure  of  culture  is  the  diffusion  of 
knowledge,  overrunning  all  the  old  barriers  of  caste, 
and,  by  the  cheap  press,  bringing  the  university  to 
eveiy  poor  man's  door  in  the  newsboy's  basket. 
Scraps  of  science,  of  thought,  of  poetry  are  in  the 

*  Dr.  Thomas  Brown. 


22  CIVILIZATION. 

coarsest  sheet,  so  that  in  every  house  we  hesitate  to 
burn  a  newspaper  until  we  have  looked  it  through. 
The  ship,  in  its  latest  complete  equipment,  is  an 
abridgment  and  compend  of  a  nation's  arts  :  the  ship 
steered  by  compass  and  chart,  —  longitude  reckoned 
by  lunar  observation  and  by  chronometer,  —  driven 
by  steam ;  and  in  wildest  sea-mountains,  at  vast  dis 
tances  from  home, 

"  The  pulses  of  her  iron  heart 
Go  beating  through  the  storm." 

No  use  can  lessen  the  wonder  of  this  control,  by  so 
weak  a  creature,  offerees  so  prodigious.  I  remem 
ber  I  watched,  in  crossing  the  sea,  the  beautiful 
skill  whereby  the  engine  in  its  constant  working  was 
made  to  produce  two  hundred  gallons  of  fresh  water 
out  of  salt-water,  every  hour,  —  thereby  supplying 
all  the  ship's  want. 

The  skill  that  pervades  complex  details ;  the  man 
that  maintains  himself;  the  chimney  taught  to  burn 
its  own  smoke  ;  the  farm  made  to  produce  all  that  i3 
consumed  on  it ;  the  very  prison  compelled  to  main 
tain  itself  and  yield  a  revenue,  and,  better  still,  made 
a  reform  school,  and  a  manufactory  of  honest  men 
out  of  rogues,  as  the  steamer  made  fresh  water  out 
of  salt,  —  all  these  are  examples  of  that  tendency  to 
combine  antagonisms,  and  utilize  .evil,  which  is  the 
index  of  high  civilization. 

Civilization  is  the  result  of  highly  complex  organ 
ization.  In  the  snake,  all  the  organs  are  sheathed : 


CIVILIZATION.  23 

no  nands,  no  feet,  no  fins,  no  wings.  In  bird  and 
beast,  the  organs  are  released,  and  begin  to  play. 
In  man,  they  are  all  unbound,  and  full  of  joyful 
action.  With  this  unswaddling  he  receives  the  ab 
solute  illumination  we  call  Reason,  and  thereby  true 
liberty. 

Climate  has  much  to  do  with  this  melioration. 
The  highest  civility  has  never  loved  the  hot  zone?. 
Wherever  snow  falls,  there  is  usually  civil  freedom. 
Where  the  banana  grows,  the  animal  system  is  indo 
lent  and  pampered  at  the  cost  of  higher  qualities  : 
the  man  is  sensual  and  cruel.  yBut  this  scale  is  not 
invariable.  High  degrees  of  moral  sentiment  con 
trol  the  unfavorable  influences  of  climate ;  and  some 
of  our  grandest  examples  of  men  and  of  races  come 
from  the  equatorial  regions,  —  as  the  genius  of 
Egypt,  of  India,  and  of  Arabia. 

These  feats  are  measures  or  traits  of  civility ;  and 
temperate  climate  is  an  important  influence,  though 
not  quite  indispensable,  for  there  have  been  learning, 
philosophy,  and  art  in  Iceland,  and  'in  the  tropics. 
But  one  condition  is  essential  to  the  social  educa 
tion  of  man,  namely,  morality.  There  can  be  no 
high  civility  without  a  deep  morality,  though  it  may 
not  always  call  itself  by  that  name,  but  sometimes 
the  point  of  honor,  as  in  the  institution  of  ,chiyalry ; 
or  palriotism^-as  in  the  Spartan. aiii_RQman repu}> 
lififl.;  or  the  enthusiasm  of  some  rejigio_us_se£t  which 
imputes  its  virtue  to  its  dogma ;  or  the  cahaJisjQa,  or 


24  CIVILIZATION. 

esprit  de  corps,  of  a  masonic  or  other  association  of 
friends. 

The  evolution  of  a  highly_rdestined  society  must 
HQ  moral ;  it  must  run  in  the  grooves  of  the  celestial 
wheels.  It  must  be  catholic  in  aims.  What  is 
moral?  It  is  the  respecting  in  action  catholic  or 
universal  ends.  Hear  the  definition  which  Kant 
gives  of  moral  conduct  :  "  Act  always  so  that  the 
immediate  motive  of  thy  will  may  become  a  univer 
sal  rule  for  all  intelligent  beings." 

Civilization  depends  on  morality.  Everything 
good  in  man  leans  on  what  is  higher.  This  rule 
holds  in  small  as  in  great.  Thus,  all  our  strength 
and  success  in  the  work  of  our  hands  depend  on  our 
borrowing  the  aid  of  the  elements.  You  have  seen 
a  carpenter  on  a  ladder  with  a  broad-axe  chopping 
upward  chips  from  a  beam.  How  awkward  !  at 
what  disadvantage  he  works  !  But  see  him  on  the 
ground,  dressing  his  timber  under  him.  Now,  not 
his  feeble  muscles,  but  the  force  of  gravity  brings 
down  the  axe  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  planet  itself  splits 
his  stick.  The  farmer  had  much  ill-temper,  lazi 
ness,  and  shirking  to  endure  from  his  hand-sawyers, 
until  one  ^day  he  bethought  him  to  put  his  saw-mill 
on  the  edge  of  a  waterfall ;  and  the  river  never  tires 
of  turning  his  wheel :  the  river  is  good-  natured, 
and  never  hints  an  objection. 

We  had  letters  to  send :  couriers  could  not  gc 
fast  enough,  nor  far  enough ;  broko  their  wagons, 


CIVILIZATION.  25 

foundered  their  horses  ;  bad  roads  in  spring,  snow 
drifts  in  winter,  heats  in  summer ;  could  not  get  the 
horses  out  of  a  walk.  But  we  found  out  that  the 
air  and  earth  were  full  of  Electricity ;  and  always 
going  our  way,  —  just  the  way  we  wanted  to 
send.  Would  he  take  a  message  ?  Just  as  lief  as 
not ;  had  nothing  else  to  do ;  would  carry  it  in  no 
time.  Only  one  doubt  occurred,  one  staggering  ob 
jection,  —  he  had  no  carpet-bag,  no  visible  pockets, 
no  hands)  not  so  much  as  a  mouth,  to  carry  a  letter. 
But,  after  much  thought  and  many  experiments,  we 
managed  to  meet  the  conditions,  and  to  fold  up  the 
letter  in  such  invisible  compact  form  as  he  could 
carry  in  those  invisible  pockets  of  his,  never  wrought 
by  needle  and  thread,  —  and  it  went  like  a  charm. 

I  admire  still  more  than  the  saw-mill  the  skill 
which,  on  the  sea-shore,  makes  the  tides  drive  the 
wheels  and  grind  corn,  and  which  thus  engages  the 
assistance  of  the  moon,  like  a  hired  hand,  to  grind, 
and  wind,  and  pump,  and  saw,  and  split  stone,  and 
roll  iron. 

Now  that  is  the  wisdom  of  a  man,  in  every  in 
stance  of  his  labor,  to  hitch  his  wagon  to  a  star, 
and  see  his  chore  done  by  the  gods  themselves. 
That  is  the  "way  we  are  strong,  by  borrowing^the 
mightof_the_£lemerits.  The  forces  of  steam,  grav 
ity,  galvanism,  light,  magnets,  wind,  fire,  serve  us 
day  by  day,  and  v^ost  us  nothing, 

Our  astraqoinjr  is  full  of  examples  of  calling  in 


26  CIVILIZATION. 

the  aid  of  these  magnificent  helpers.  Thus,  on  a 
planet  so  small  as  ours,  the  want  of  an  adequate 
base  for  astronomical  measurements  is  early  felt,  as, 
for  example,  in  detecting  the  parallax  of  a  star. 
But  the  astronomer,  having  by  an  observation  fixed 
the  place  of  a  star,  by  so  simple  an  expedient  as 
waiting  six  months,  and  then  repeating  his  obser 
vation,  contrived  to  put  the  diameter  of  the  earth's 
orbit,  say  two  hundred  millions  of  miles,  between 
his  first  observation  and  his  second,  and  this  line 
afforded  him  a  respectable  base  for  his  triangle. 

All  our  arts  aim  to  win  this  vantage.  We  can 
not  bring  the  heavenly  powers  to  us,  but,  if  we  will 
only  choose  our  jobs  in  directions  in  which  they 
travel,  they  will  undertake  them  with  the  greatest 
pleasure.  It  is  a  peremptory  rule  with  them,  that 
they  never  go  out  of  their  road.  We  are  dapper  lit 
tle  busybodies,  and  run  this  way  and  that  way 
superserviceably  ;  but  they  swerve  never  from  their 
foreordained  paths,  —  neither  the  sun,  nor  the 
moon,  nor  a  bubble  of  air,  nor  a  mote  of  dust. 

And  as  our  handiworks  borrow  the  elements,  so 
all  our  social  and  political  action  leans  on  princi 
pies.  To  accomplish  anything  excellent,  the  will 
must  work  for  catholic  and  universal  ends.  A 
puny  creature  walled  in  on  every  side,  as  Daniel 
wrote,  — •» 

"  Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man  I  " 


CIVILIZATION.  27 

but  when  his  will  leans  on  a  principle,  when  he  ia 
the  vehicle  of  ideas,  he  borrows  their  omnipotence. 
Gibraltar  may  be  strong,  but  ideas  are  impregnable, 
and  bestow  on  the  hero  their  invincibility.  "  It 
was  a  great  instruction,"  said  a  saint  in  Cromwell's 
war,  "  that  the  best  courages  are  but  beams  of  the 
Almighty.'*  Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star.  Let  us 
not  fag  in  paltry  works  which  serve  our  pot  and 
bag  alone.  Let  us  not  lie  and  steal.  No  god  will 
help.  We  shall  find  all  their  teams  going  the  other 
way,  —  Charles's  Wain,  Great  Bear,  Orion,  Leo, 
Hercules :  every  god  will  leave  us.  Work  rather 
for  those  interests  which  the  divinities  honor  and" 
promote^ — justice,  loye,  freedom,  knowledge,  util 
ity. 

•If  we  can  thus  ride  in  Olympian  chariots  by  put 
ting  our  works  in  the  path  of  the  celestial  circuits, 
we  can  harness  also  evil  agents,  the  powers  of  dark 
ness,  and  force  them  to  serve  against  their  will  the 
ends  of  wisdom  and  virtue.  Thus,  a  wise  govern 
ment  puts  fines  and  penalties  on  pleasant  vices. 
What  a  benefit  would  the  American  government, 
not  yet  relieved  of  its  extreme  need,  render  to  it- 
seif,  and  to  every  city,  village,  and  hamlet  in  the 
States,  if  it  would  tax  whiskey  and  rum  almost  to 
the  point  of  prohibition  I  Was  it  Bonaparte  who 
said  that  he  found  vices  very  good  patriots  ? —  "  he 
got  five  millions  from,  the  love  of  brandy,  and  he 
should  be  glad  to  knou  which  of  the  virtues  wouW 


28  CIVILIZATION. 

pay  him  as  much."  Tobacco  and  opium  have 
broad  backs,  and  will  cheerfully  carry  the  load  of 
armies,  if  you  choose  to  make  them  pay  high  for 
such  joy  as  they  give  and  such  harm  as  they  do. 

These  are  traits,  and  measures,  and  modes ;  and 
the  true  test  of  civilization  is,  not  the  census,  nor 
the  size  of  cities,  nor  the  crops,  —  no,  biit  the  kind 
,ojjtnjin_the_j£pj^^  I  see  the  vast  ad 

vantages  of  this  country,  spanning  the  breadth  of 
the  temperate  zone.  I  see  the  immense  material 
prosperity,  —  towns  on  towns,  states  on  states,  and 
wealth  piled  in  the  massive  architecture  of  cities ; 
California  quartz-mountains  dumped  down  in  New 
York  to  be  repiled  architecturally  along-shore  from 
Canada  to  Cuba,  and  thence  westward  to  California 
again.  But  it  is  not  New  York  streets  built  by  the 
confluence  of  workmen  and  wealth  of  all  nations, 
though  stretching  out  towards  Philadelphia  until 
they  touch  it,  and  northward  until  they  touch  New 
Haven,  Hartford,  Springfield,  Worcester,  and  Bos 
ton,  —  not  these  that  make  the  real  estimation. 
But,  when  I  look  over  this  constellation  of  cities 
which  animate  and  illustrate  the  land,  and  see  how 
little  the  government  has  to  do  with  their  daily 
life,  how  self-helped  and  self-directed  all  families  are, 
—  knots  of  men  in  purely  natural  societies, — so 
cieties  of  trade,  of  kindred  blood,  of  habitual  hos 
pitality,  house  and  house,  man  acting  on  man  by 
weight  of  opinion,  of  longer  or  better-directed  in- 


CIVILIZATION.  29 

dustry^  the  refining  influence  of  women,  the  invi 
tation  which  experience  and  permanent  causes  open 
to  youth  and  labor,  —  when  I  see  how  much  each 
virtuous  and  gifted  person,  whom  all  men  consider, 
lives  affectionately  with  scores  -of  excellent  people 
who  are  not  known  far  from  home,  and  perhaps 
with  great  reason  reckons  these  people  his  supe 
riors  in  virtue,  and  in  the  symmetry  and  force  of 
their  qualities,  I  see  what  cubic  values  America 
has,  and  in  these  a  better  certificate  of  civilization 
than  great  cities  or  enormous  wealth. 

In  strictness,  the  vital  refinements  are  the  moral 
and  intellectual  steps.  The  appearance  of  the 
Hebrew  Moses,  of  the  Indian  Buddh,  —  in  Greece, 
of  the  Seven  Wise  Masters,  of  the  acute  and  up 
right  Socrates,  and  of  the  Stoic  Zeno,  —  in  Judaea, 
the  advent  of  Jesus,  —  and  in  modern  Christen 
dom,  of  the  realists  Huss,  Savonarola,  and  Luther, 
are  causal  facts  which  carry  forward  races  to  new 
convictions,  and  elevate  the  rule  of  life.  In  the 
presence  of  these  agencies,  it  is  frivolous  to  insist 
on  the  invention  of  printing  or  gunpowder,  of 
steam-power  or  gas-light,  percussion-caps  and  rub 
ber-shoes,  which  are  toys  thrown  off  from  that 
security,  freedom,  and  exhilaration  which  a  healthy 
morality  creates  in  society.  These  arts  add  a  com 
fort  and  smoothness  to  house  and  street  life ;  but  a 
purer  morality,  which  kindles  genius,  civilizes  civil 
ization,  casts  backward  all  that  we  held  sacred  into 


30  CIVILIZATION. 

the  profane,  as  the  flame  of  oil  throws  a  shadow 
when  shin^d  upon  by  the  flame  of  the  Bude-light. 
Not  the  less  the  popular  'measures  of  progress  will 
ever  be  the  arts  and  the  laws. 

But  if  there  be  a  country  which  cannot  stand 
any  one  of  these  tests,  —  a  country  where  knowl 
edge  cannot  be  diffused  without  perils  of  mob-law 
and  statute-law,  —  where  speech  is  not  free',  — 
where  the  post-office  is  violated,  mail-bags  opened, 
and  letters  tampered  with,  —  where  public  debts  and 
private  debts  outside  of  the  State  are  repudiated, 
—  where  liberty  is  attacked  in  the  primary  insti 
tution  of  social  life,  —  where  the  position  of  the 
white  woman  is  injuriously  affected  by  the  out 
lawry  of  the  black  woman,  —  where  the  arts,  such 
as  they  have,  are  all  imported,  having  no  indigenous 
life,  —  where  the  laborer  is  not  secured  in  the  earn 
ings  of  his  own  hands,  —  where  suffrage  is  not  free 
or  equal,  —  that  country  is,  in  all  these  respects, 
not  civil,  but  barbarous ;  and  no  advantages  of  soil, 
climate,  or  coast  can  resist  these  suicidal  mischiefs. 

Morality  and  all  the  incidents  of  morality  are 
essential;  as,  justice  to  the  citizen,  and  personal 
liberty.  Montesquieu  says :  "  Countries  are  well 
cultivated,  not  as  they  are  fertile,  but  as  they  are 
free " ;  and  the  remark  holds  not  less  but  more 
true  of  the  culture  of  men,  than  of  the  tillage  of 
land.  And  the  highest  proof  of  civility  is,  that 
the  whole  public  action  of  the  State  is  directed  on 
securing  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number. 


ART. 


L  I  B  11  A  II  Y 

UNI  VKKSITV   OF 

CALIFORNIA. 


AKT. 


ALT.  departments  of  life  at  the  present  day,  — — 
Trade,  Politics,  Letters,  Science,  or  Religion, — 
seem  to  feel,  and  to  labor  to  express,  the  identity  of 
their  law.  They  are  rays  of  one  sun  ;  they  translate 
each  into  a  new  language  the  sense  of  the  other. 
They  are  sublime  when  seen  as  emanations  of  a 
Necessity  contradistinguished  from  the  vulgar  Fate, 
by  being  instant  and  alive,  and  dissolving  man,  as 
well  as  his  works,  in  its  flowing  beneficence.  This 
influence  is  conspicuously  visible  in  the  principles 
and  history  of  Art. 

On  one  side  in  primary  communication  with 
absolute  truth  through  thought  and  instinct,  the 
human  mind  on  the  other  side  tends,  by  an  equal 
necessity,  to  the  publication  and  embodiment  of 
its  thought,  modified  and  dwarfed  by  the  impurity/ 
and  untruth  which,  in  all  our  experience,  injure  the 
individuality  through  which  it  passes.  The  child 
not  only  suffers,  but  cries  ;  not  only  hungers,  but 
eats.  The  man  not  only  thinks,  but  speaks  and  acts. 
Every  thought  that  arises  in  the  mind,  in  its  rising 
aims  to  pass  out  of  the  mind  into  act ;  just  as  every 


34  ART. 

plant,  in  the  moment  of  germination,  struggles  up 
to  light.  Thought  is  the  seed  of  action  ;  but  action 
is  as  much  its  second  form  as  thought  is  its  first. 
It  rises  in  thought,  to  the  end  that  it  may  bo  uttered 
and  acted.  The  more  profound  the  thought,  the 
more  burdensome.  Always  in  proportion  to  the 
depth  of  its  sense  does  it  knock  importunately  at 
the  gates  of  the  soul,  to  be  spoken,  to  be  done. 
What  is  in,  will  out.  It  struggles  to  the  birth. 
Speech  is  a  great  pleasure,  and  action  a  great  pleas 
ure  ;  they  cannot  be  fore  borne. 

The  utterance  of  thought  and  emotion  in  speech 
and  action  may  be  conscious  or  unconscious.  The 
sucking  child  is  an  unconscious  actor.  The  man  in 
an  ecstasy  of  fear  or  anger  is  an  unconscious  actor. 
A  large  part  of  our  habitual  actions  are  uncon 
sciously  done,  and  most  of  our  necessary  words  are 
unconsciously  said. 

The  conscious  utterance  of  thought,  by  speech 
or  action,  to  any  end,  is  Art.  From  the  first  imi 
tative  babble  of  a  child  to  the  despotism  of  elo 
quence,  from  his  first  pile  of  toys  or  chip  bridge 
to  the  masonry  of  Minot  Rock  Light-house  or  the 
Pacific  Railroad,  from  the  tattooing  of  the  Owhy- 
hees  to  the  Vatican  Gallery,  from  the  simplest  ex 
pedient  of  private  prudence  to  the  American  Con 
stitution,  from  its  first  to  its  last  works,  Art  is  the 
spirit's  voluntary  use  and  combination  of  things  to 
serve  its  end.  The  Will  distinguishes  it  as  spirit 


ART.  35 

nal  action.  Relatively  to  themselves,  the  bee.  the 
bird,  the  beaver,  have  no  art ;  for  what  they  do, 
they  do  instinctively  ;  but  relatively  to  the  Supreme 
Being,  they  have.  And  the  same  is  true  of  all  un 
conscious  action :  relatively  to  the  doer,  it  is  instinct ; 
relatively  to  the  First  Cause,  it  is  Art.  In  this 
sense,  recognizing  the  Spirit  which  informs  Nature, 
Plato  rightly  said,  "  Those  things  which  are  said  to 
be  done  by  Nature  are  indeed  done  by  Divine  Art." 
Art,  universally,  is  the  spirit  creative.  It  was  de 
fined  by  Aristotle,  "  The  reason  of  the  thing,  with 
out  the  matter." 

If  we  follow  the  popular  distinction  of  work? 
according  to  their  aim,  we  should  say,  the  Spirit,  in 
its  creation,  aims  at  use  or  at  beauty,  and  hence 
Art  divides  itself  into  the  Useful  and  the  Fine 
Arts. 

The  useful  arts  comprehend  not  only  those  that 
lie  next  to  instinct,  as  agriculture,  building,  weav 
ing,  &c.,  but  also  navigation,  practical  chemistry, 
and  the  construction  of  all  the  grand  and  delicate 
tools  and  instruments  by  which  man  serves  himself; 
as  language,  the  watch,  the  ship,  the  decimal  cipher  ; 
and  also  the  sciences,  so  far  as  they  are  made  f.er- 
viceable  to  political  economy. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  pleasure  we  receive  from 
a  ship,  a  railroad,  a  dry-dock ;  or  from  a  picture,  a 
dramatic  representation,  a  statue,  a  poem,  we  find 
that  these  have  not  a  quite  simple,  but  a  blended 


36  ART. 

origin.  We  find  that  the  question,  What  is  Art? 
leads  us  directly  to  another,  —  Who  is  the  artist  ? 
and  the  solution  of  this  is  the  key  to  the  history  of 
Art. 

I  hasten  to  state  the  principle  which  prescribes, 
through  different  means,  its  firm  law  to  the  useful 
and  the  beautiful  arts.  The  law  is  this.  The  uni 
versal  soul  is  the  alone  creator  of  the  useful  and 
the  beautiful ;  therefore,  to  make  anything  useful  or 
beautiful,  the  individual  must  be  submitted  to  tha 
universal  mind. 

In  the  first  place,  let  us  consider  this  in  reference 
to  the  useful  arts.  Here  the  omnipotent  agent  is 
Nature ;  all  human  acts  are  satellites  to  her  orb. 
Nature  is  the  representative  of  the  universal  mind, 
and  the  law  becomes  this,  —  that  Art  must  be  a 
complement  to  nature,  strictly  subsidiary.  It  was 
said,  in  allusion  to  the  great  structures  of  the  an 
cient  Romans,  —  the  aqueducts  and  bridges,  —  that 
"  their  Art  was  a  Nature  working  to  municipal 
ends."  That  is  a  true  account  of  all  just  works 
of  useful  art.  Smeaton  built  Eddystone  Light-house 
OE.  the  model  of  an  oak-tree,  as  being  the  form  in 
nature  best  designed  to  resist  a  constant  assailing 
force.  Dollond  formed  his  achromatic  telescope  on 
the  model  of  the  human  eye.  Duhamel  built  a 
bridge  by  letting  in  a  piece  of  stronger  timber  for 
the  middle  of  the  under  surface,  getting  his  hint 
from  the  structure  of  the  shin-bone. 


ART.  37 

i| 

*  The  first  and  last  lesson  of  the  useful  arts  is,  that 
Nature  tyrannizes  over  our  works.  They  must  be 
conformed  to  her  law,  or  they  will  be  ground  to 
powder  by  her  omnipresent  activity.  Nothing  droll, 
nothing  whimsical  will  endure.  Nature  is  ever  in 
terfering  with  Art.  You  cannot  build  your  house 
or  pagoda  as  you  will,  but  as  you  must.  There  is 
a  quick  bound  set  to  your  caprice.  The  leaning 
tower  can  only  lean  so  far.  The  verandah  or 
pagoda  roof  can  curve  upward  only  to  a  certain 
point.  The  slope  of  your  roof  is  determined  by 
the  weight  of  snow.  It  is  only  within  narrow 
limits  that  the  discretion  of  the  architect  may 
range  :  gravity,  wind,  sun,  rain,  the  size  of  men 
and  animals,  and  such  like,  have  more  to  say  than 
he.  It  is  the  law  of  fluids  that  prescribes  the 
shape  of  the  boat, — keel,  rudder,  and  bows, — • 
and,  in  the  finer  fluid  above,  the  form  and  tackle 
of  the  sails.  Man  seems  to  have  no  option  about 
his  tools,  but  merely  the  necessity  to  learn  from  • 
Nature  what  will  fit  best,  as  if  he  were  fitting  a  j 
screw  or  a  door.  Beneath  a  necessity  thus  al 
mighty,  what  is  artificial  in  man's  life  seems  insig 
nificant.  He  seems  to  take  his  task  so  minutely 
from  intimations  of  Nature,  that  his  works  become 
as  it  were  hers,  and  he  is  no  longer  free. 

But  if  we  work  within  this  limit,  she  yields  us 
all  her  strength.  All  powerful  action  is  performed 
by  bringing  the  forces  of  nature  to  bear  upon  our 


ART 

objects.  We  do  not  grind  corn  or  lift  the  loom  by 
our  own  strength,  but  we  build  a  mill  in  such 
position  as  to  set  the  north  wind  to  play  upon  our 
instrument,  or  the  elastic  force  of  steam,  or  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  sea.  So  in  our  handiwork,  we  do 
few  things  by  muscular  force,  but  we  place  our 
selves  in  such  attitudes  as  to  bring  the  force  of 
gravity,  that  is,  the  weight  of  the  planet,  to  bear 
upon  the  spade  or  the  axe  we  wield.  In  short,  in 
all  our  operations  we  seek  not  to  use  our  own,  but 
to  bring  a  quite  infinite  force  to  bear. 

Let  us  now  consider  this  law  as  it  affects  the 
works  that  have  beauty  for  their  end,  that  is,  the 
productions  of  the  Fine  Arts.  Here  again  the 
prominent  fact  is  subordination  of  man.  His  art 
is  the  least  part  of  his  work  of  art.  A  great  deduc 
tion  is  to  be  made  before  we  can  know  his  proper 
contribution  to  it. 

Music,  Eloquence,  Poetry,  Painting,  Sculpture, 
Architecture.  This  is  a  rough  enumeration  of  the 
Fine  Arts.  I  omit  Rhetoric,  which  only  respects 
the  form  of  eloquence  and  poetry.  Architecture 
and  eloquence  are  mixed  arts,  whose  end  is  some 
times  beauty  and  sometimes  use. 

It  will  be  seen  that  in  each  of  these  arts  there  is 

much  which  is  not  spiritual.     Each  has  a  material 

.. basis,  and  in  each  the  creating  intellect  is  crippled 

in  some  degree  by  the  stuff  on  which   it  works. 

The  basis  of  poetry  is  language,  which  is  material 


ART.  3D 

only  on  one  side.  It  is  a  demi-god.  But  being 
applied  primarily  to  the  common  necessities  of 
man,  it  is  not  new-created  by  the  poet  for  his  own 
ends. 

The  basis  of  music  is  the  qualities  of  the  air  and 
the  vibrations  of  sonorous  bodies.  The  pulsation 
of  a  stretched  string  or  wire  gives  the  ear  the 
pleasure  of  sweet  sound,  before  yet  the  musician 
has  enhanced  this  pleasure  by  concords  and  com 
binations. 

Eloquence,  as  far  as  it  is  a  fine  art,  is  modified 
how  much  by  the  material  organization  of  the 
orator,  the  tone  of  the  voice,  the  physical  strength, 
the  play  of  the  eye  and  countenance.  All  this  is  so 
much  deduction  from  the  purely  spiritual  pleasure, 
—  as  so  much  deduction  from  the  merit  of  Art,-  - 
and  is  the  attribute  of  Nature. 

In  painting,  bright  colors  stimulate  the  eye,  before 
yet  they  are  harmonized  into  a  landscape.  In 
sculpture  and  in  architecture  the  material,  as  mar 
ble  or  granite,  and  in  architecture  the  mass,  are 
sources  of  great  pleasure,  quite  independent  of 
the  artificial  arrangement.  The  art  resides  in  the 
model,  in  the  plan  ;  for  it  is  on  that  the  genius  of 
the  artist  is  expended,  not  on  the  statue  or  the 
temple.  Just  as  much  better  as  is  the  polished 
statue  ol  dazzling  marble  than  the  clay  model,  or 
as  much  more  impressive  as  is  the  granite  cathedral 
or  pyramid  than  the  ground-plan  or  profile  of  them 


40  ART. 

on  paper,  so  much  more  beauty  owe  they  to  Nature 
than  to  Art. 

There  is  a  still  larger  deduction  to  be  made  from 
the  genius  of  the  artist  in  favor  of  Nature  than  I 
Lave  yet  specified. 

A  jumble  of  musical  sounds  on  a  viol  or  a  flute,  in 
which  the  rhythm  of  the  tune  is  played  without  one 
of  the  notes  being  right,  gives  pleasure  to  the  un 
skilful  ear.  A  very  coarse  imitation  of  the  human 
form  on  canvas,  or  in  wax-work,  —  a  coarse  sketch 
in  colors  of  a  landscape,  in  which  imitation  is  all 
that  is  attempted,  —  these  things  give  to  unprac 
tised  eyes,  to  the  uncultured,  who  do  not  ask  a 
fine  spiritual  delight,  almost  as  much  pleasure  as  a 
statue  of  Canova  or  a  picture  of  Titian. 

And  in  the  statue  of  Canova,  or  the  picture  of 
Titian,  these  give  the  great  part  of  the  pleasure  ; 
they  are  the  basis  on  which  the  fine  spirit  rears 
a  higher  delight,  but  to  which  these  are  indispen 
sable. 

Another  deduction  from  the  genius  of  the  artist 
is  what  is  conventional  in  his  art,  of  which  there  is 
much  in  every  work  of  art.  Thus  how  much  is 
there  that  is  not  original  in  every  particular  build 
ing,  in  every  statue,  in  every  tune,  painting,  poem, 
or  harangue  !  —  whatever  is  national  or  usual ;  as 
the  usage  of  building  all  Roman  churches  in  the  form 
of  a  cross,  the  prescribed  distribution  of  parts  of  a 
theatre,  the  custom  of  draping  a  statue  in  classica* 


ART.  41 

costume.  Yet  who  will  deny  that  the  merely  con- 
ventional  part  of  the  performance  contributes  much 
to  its  effect  ? 

One  consideration  more  exhausts,  I  believe,  all 
the  deductions  from  the  genius  of  the  artist  in  any 
given  work.  This  is  the  adventitious.  Thus  the 
pleasure  that  a  noble  temple  gives  us  is  only  in  part 
owing  to  the  temple.  It  is  exalted  by  the  beauty 
of  sunlight,  the  play  of  the  clouds,  the  landscape 
around  it,  its  grouping  with  the  houses,  trees,  and 
towers  in  its  vicinity.  The  pleasure  of  eloquence 
is  in  greatest  part  owing  often  to  the  stimulus  of 
the  occasion  which  produces  it,  —  to  the  magic  of 
sympathy,  which  exalts  the  feeling  of  each  by 
radiating  on  him  the  feeling  of  all. 

The  effect  of  music  belongs  how  much  to  the 
place,  —  as  the  church,  or  the  moonlight  walk  ;  or 
to  the  company  ;  or,  if  on  the  stage,  to  what  went 
before  in  the  play,  or  to  the  expectation  of  what 
shall  come  after. 

In  poetry,  "  It  is  tradition  more  than  invention 
that  helps  the  poet  to  a  good  fable."  The  adven 
titious  beauty  of  poetry  may  be  felt  in  the  greater 
delight  which  a  verse  gives  in  happy  quotation  than 
in  the  poem. 

It  is  a  curious  proof  of  our  conviction  that  the 
artist  does  not  feel  himself  to  be  the  parent  of  his 
work,  and  is  as  much  surprised  at  the  effect  as  we, 
that  we  are  so  unwilling  to  impute  our  best  sense  of 


42  ART. 

any  work  of  art  to  the  author.  The  highest  praise 
we  can  attribute  to  any  writer,  painter,  sculptor, 
builder,  is,  that  he  actually  possessed  the  thought  or 
feeling  with  which  he  has  inspired  us.  We  hesitate 
at  doing  Spenser  so  great  an  honor  as  to  think  that 
he  intended  by  his  allegory  the  sense  we  affix  to  it, 
We  grudge  to  Homer  the  wide  human  circumspec 
tion  his  commentators  ascribe  to  him.  Even  Shak- 
speare,  of  whom  we  can  believe  everything,  we 
think  indebted  to  Goethe  and  to  Coleridge  for  the 
wisdom  they  detect  in  his  Hamlet  and  Antony. 
Especially  have  we  this  infirmity  of  faith  in  con 
temporary  genius.  We  fear  that  Allston  and 
Greenough  did  not  foresee  and  design  all  the  effect 
they  produce  on  us. 

Our  arts  are  happy  hits.  We  are  like  the 
musician  on  the  lake,  whose  melody  is  sweeter  than 
he  knows,  or  like  a  traveller,  surprised  by  a  moun 
tain  echo,  whose  trivial  word  returns  to  him  in  ro 
mantic  thunders. 

In  view  of  these  facts,  I  say  that  the  power  of 
Nature  predominates  over  the  human  will  in  all 
works  of  even  the  fine  arts,  in  all  that  respects  their 
material  and  external  circumstances.  Nature  paints 
the  bes-t  part  of  the  picture  ;  carves  the  best  part 
of  the  statue  ;  builds  the  best  part  of  the  house  ; 
and  speaks  the  best  part  of  the  oration.  For  all 
the  advantages  to  which  I  have  adverted  are  such 
as  the  artist  did  not  consciously  produce.  He  relied 


ART.  43 

on  their  aid,  he  put  himself  in  the  way  to  receive 
aid  from  some  of  them ;  but  he  saw  that  his  planting 
and  his  watering  waited  for  the  sunlight  of  Nature, 
or  were  vain. 

Let  us  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  the  law 
stated  in  the  beginning  of  this  essay,  as  it  affects  the 
purely  spiritual  part  of  a  work  of  art. 

As,  in  useful  art,  so  far  as  it  is  useful,  the  work 
must  be  strictly  subordinated  to  the  laws  of  Nature, 
so  as  to  become  a  sort  of  continuation,  and  in  no 
wise  a  contradiction  of  Nature  ;  so,  in  art  that  aims 
at  beauty,  must  the  parts  be  subordinated  to  Ideal 
Nature,  and  everything  individual  abstracted,  so 
that  it  shall  be  the  production  of  the  universal 
soul. 

The  artist  who  is  to  produce  a  work  which  is  to 
be  admired,  not  by  his  friends  or  his  townspeople  or 
his  contemporaries,  but  by  all  men,  and  which  is 
to  be  more  beautiful  to  the  eye  in  proportion  to  its 
culture,  must  disindividualize  himself,  and  be  a  man 
of  no  party,  and  no  manner,  and  no  age,  but  one 
through  whom  the  soul  of  all  men  circulates,  as  the 
common  air  through  his  lungs.  He  must  work  in 
the  spirit  in  which  we  conceive  a  prophet  to  speak, 
or  an  angel  of  the  Lord  to  act ;  that  is,  he  is  not  to 
speak  his  own  words,  or  do  his  own  works,  or  think 
his  own  thoughts,  but  he  is  to  be  an  organ  through 
which  the  universal  mind  acts. 

In  speaking  of  the  useful  arts,  I  pointed  to  the  fact 


44  ART. 

that  we  do  not  dig,  or  grind,  or  hew,  by  our  muscu 
lar  strength,  but  by  bringing  the  weight  of  the 
planet  to  bear  on  the  spade,  axe,  or  bar.  Precisely- 
analogous  to  this,  in  the  fine  arts,  is  the  manner  of 
our  intellectual  work.  We  aim  to  hinder  our  indi 
viduality  from  acting.  So  much  as  we  can  shove 
aside  our  egotism,  our  prejudice,  and  will,  and  bring 
the  omniscience  of  reason  upon  the  subject  before 
us,  so  perfect  is  the  work.  The  wonders  of  Shak- 
speare  are  things  which  he  saw  whilst  he  stood 
aside,  and  then  returned  to  record  them.  The 
poet  aims  at  getting  observations  without  aim ;  to 
subject  to  thought  things  seen  without  (voluntary) 
thought. 

In  eloquence,  the  great  triumphs  of  the  art  are, 
when  the  orator  is  lifted  above  himself;  when  con 
sciously  he  makes  himself  the  mere  tongue  of  the 
occasion  and  the  hour,  and  says  what  cannot  bat  be 
said.  Hence  the  term  abandonment,  to  describe  the 
self-surrender  of  the  orator.  Not  his  will,  but  the 
principle  on  which  he  is  horsed,  the  great  connec 
tion  and  crisis  of  events,  thunder  in  the  ear  of  the 
crowd. 

In  poetry,  where  every  word  is  free,  every  word 
is  necessary.  Good  poetry  could  not  have  been 
otherwise  written  than  it  is.  The  first  time  you 
hear  it,  it  sounds  rather  as  if  copied  out  of  some 
invisible  tablet  in  the  Eternal  mind,  than  as  If  arbi 
trarily  composed  by  the  poet.  The  feeling  of  all 


ART.  45 

great  poets  has  accorded  with  this.  They  found 
the  verse,  not  made  it.  The  muse  brought  it  to 
them. 

In  sculpture,  did  ever  anybody  call  the  Apollo  a 
fancy  piece  ?  Or  say  of  the  Laocoon  how  it  might 
be  made  different  ?  A  masterpiece  of  art  has  in  the 
mind  a  fixed  place  in  the  chain  of  being,  as  much 
as  a  plant  or  a  crystal. 

The  whole  language  of  men,  especially  of  artists, 
in  reference  to  this  subject,  points  at  the  belief  that 
every  work  of  art,  in  proportion  to  its  excellence, 
partakes  of  the  precision  of  fate :  no  room  was  there 
for  choice,  no  play  for  fancy ;  for  in  the  moment, 
or  in  the  successive  moments,  when  that  form  was 
seen,  the  iron  lids  of  Reason  were  unclosed,  which 
ordinarily  are  heavy  with  slumber.  The  individual 
mind  became  for  the  moment  the  vent  of  the  mind 
of  humanity. 

There  is  but  one  Reason.  The  mind  that  made 
the  world  is  not  one  mind,  but  the  mind.  Every 
man  is  an  inlet  to  the  same,  and  to  all  of  the  same. 
And  every  work  of  art  is  a  more  or  less  pure  mani 
festation  of  the  same.  Therefore  we  arrive  at  this 
conclusion,  which  I  offer  as  a  confirmation  of  the 
whole  view,  that  the  delight  which  a  work  of  art 
affords,  seems  to  arise  from  our  recognizing  in  it 
the  mind  that  formed  Nature,  again  in  active  opera-  , 
tion. 

It  differs  from  the  works  of  Nature  in  this,  that 


46  ART. 

they  are  organically  reproductive.  This  is  not ,  but 
spiritually  it  is  prolific  by  its  powerful  action  on  the 
intellects  of  men. 

Hence  it  follows  that  a  study  of  admirable  works 
of  art  sharpens  our  perceptions  of  the  beauty  of 
Nature  ;  that  a  certain  analogy  reigns  throughout 
the  wonders  of  both ;  that  the  contemplation  of  a 
work  of  great  art  draws  us  into  a  state  of  mind  which 
may  be  called  religious.  It  conspires  with  all  exalted 
sentiments. 

Proceeding  from  absolute  mind,  whose  nature  is 
goodness  as  much  as  truth,  the  great  works  are 
always  attuned  to  moral  nature.  If  the  earth  and 
sea  conspire  with  virtue  more  than  vice,  —  so  do  the 
masterpieces  of  art.  The  galleries  of  ancient  sculp 
ture  in  Naples  and  Rome  strike  no  deeper  conviction 
into  the  mind  than  the  contrast  of  the  purity,  the 
severity,  expressed  in  these  fine  old  heads,  with  the 
frivolity  and  grossness  of  the  mob  that  exhibits  and 
the  mob  that  gazes  at  them.  These  are  the  coun 
tenances  of  the  first-born,  —  the  face  of  man  in  the 
morning  of  the  world.  No  mark  is  on  these  lofty 
features,  of  sloth,  or  luxury,  or  meanness,  and  they 
surprise  you  with  a  moral  admonition,  as  they  speak 
of  nothing  around  you,  but  remind  you  of  the  fra 
grant  thoughts  and  the  purest  resolutions  of  your 
youth. 

Herein  is  the  explanation  of  the  analogies  which 
exist  in  all  the  arts.  They  are  the  reappearance  of 


ART  47 

one  mind,  working  in  many  materials  to  many  tem 
porary  ends.  Raphael  paints  wisdom  ;  Handel  sings 
it,  Phidias  carves  it,  Shakspeare  writes  it,  Wren 
builds  it,  Columbus  sails  it,  Luther  preaches  it, 
Washington  arms  it,  Watt  mechanizes  it.  Painting 
was  called  "  silent  poetry  "  ;  and  poetry,  "  speaking 
painting."  The  laws  of  each  art  are  convertible 
into  the  laws  of  every  other. 

Herein  we  have  an  explanation  of  the  necessity 
that  reigns  in  all  the  kingdom  of  Art. 

Arising  out  of  eternal  Reason,  one  and  perfect, 
whatever  is  beautiful  rests  on  the  foundation  of  the 
necessary.  Nothing  is  arbitrary,  nothing  is  insu 
lated  in  beauty.  It  depends  forever  on  the  neces- 
.ary  and  the  useful.  The  plumage  of  the  bird,  the 
mimic  plumage  of  the  insect,  has  a  reason  for  its 
rich  colors  in  the  constitution  of  the  animal.  Fit 
ness  is  so  inseparable  an  accompaniment  of  beauty, 
that  it  has  been  taken  for  it.  The  most  perfect 
form  to  answer  an  end  is  so  far  beautiful.  We 
feel,  in  seeing  a  noble  building,  which  rhymes  well, 
as  we  do  in  hearing  a  perfect  song,  that  it  is  spirit 
ually  organic  ;  that  is,  had  a  necessity,  in  nature, 
for  being,  was  one  of  the  possible  forms  in  the 
Divine  mind,  and  is  now  only  discovered  and  ex 
ecuted  by  the  artist,  not  arbitrarily  composed  by 
him. 

And  so  every  genuine  work  of  art  has  as  much 
reason  for  being  as  the  earth  and  the  sun.  The 


48  ART. 

gayest  charm  of  beauty  lias  a  root  in  tlie  constitu 
tion  of  things.  The  Iliad  of  Homer,  the  songs  of 
David,  the  odes  of  Pindar,  the  tragedies  of  JEschy- 
lus,  the  Doric  temples,  the  Gothic  cathedrals,  the 
plays  of  Shakspeare,  all  and  each  were  made  not 
for  sport,  but  in  grave  earnest,  in  tears  and  smiles 
of  suffering  and  loving  men. 

Viewed  from  this  point,  the  history  of  Art  be 
comes  intelligible,  and,  moreover,  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  studies.  We  see  how  each  work  of  art 
sprang  irresistibly  from  necessity,  and,  moreover, 
took  its  form  from  the  broad  hint  of  Nature.  Beau 
tiful  in  this  wise  is  the  obvious  origin  of  all  the 

o 

known  orders  of  architecture  ;  namely,  that  they 
were  the  idealizing  of  the  primitive  abodes  of  each 
people.  There  was  no  wilfulness  in  the  savages  in 
this  perpetuating  of  their  first  rude  abodes.  The 
first  form  in  which  they  built  a  house  would  be  the 
first  form  of  their  public  and  religious  edifice  also. 
This  form  becomes  immediately  sacred  in  the  eyes 
of  their  children,  and,  as  more  traditions  cluster 
round  it,  is  imitated  with  more  splendor  in  each 
succeeding  generation. 

In  like  manner,  it  has  been  remarked  by  Goethe 
that  the  granite  breaks  into  parallelepipeds,  which 
broken  in  two,  one  part  would  be  an  obelisk  ;  that 
in  Upper  Egypt  the  inhabitants  would  naturally 
mark  a  memorable  spot  by  setting  up  so  conspicu 
ous  a  stone.  Again,  he  suggested,  we  may  see  in 


ART.  49 

any  stone  wall,  on  a  fragment  of  rock,  the  project 
ing  veins  of  harder  stone,  which  have  resisted  the 
action  of  frost  and  water  which  has  decomposed 
the  rest.  This  appearance  certainly  gave  the  hint 
of  the  hieroglyphics  inscribed  on  their  obelisk.  The 
amphitheatre  of  the  old  Romans,  —  any  one  may 
see  its  origin  who  look?  at  the  crowd  running  to 
gether  to  see  any  fight,  sickness,  or  odd  appearance 
in  the  street.  The  first  comers  gather  round  in  a 
circle ;  those  behind  stand  on  tiptoe ;  and  farther 
back  they  climb  on  fences  or  window-sills,  and  so 
make  a  cup  of  which  the  object  of  attention  occu 
pies  the  hollow  area.  The  architect  put  benches 
in  this,  and  enclosed  the  cup  with  a  wall,  —  and,  be 
hold  a  coliseum  I 

/ 

It  would  be  easy  to  show  of  many  fine  things  in 
the  world,  —  in  the  customs  of  nations,  the  etiquette 
of  courts,  the  constitution  of  governments,  —  the 
origin  in  quite  simple  local  necessities.  Heraldry, 
for  example,  and  the  ceremonies  of  a  coronation,  are 
a  dignified  repetition  of  the  occurrences  that  might 
befall  a  dragoon  and  his  footboy.  The  College  of 
Cardinals  were  originally  the  parish  priests  of  Rome. 
The  leaning  towers  originated  from  the  civil  discords 
which  induced  every  lord  to  build  a  tower.  Then 
it  became  a  point  of  family  pride,  —  and  for  more 
pride  the  novelty  of  a  leaning  tower  was  built. 

This  strict  dependence  of  Art  upon  material  and 
ideal  Nature,  this  adamantine  necessity  which  un« 


50  ART. 

derlies  it,  has  made  all  its  past,  and  may  foreshow 
its  future  history.  It  never  was  in  the  power  of 
any  man,  or  any  community,  to  call  the  arts  into 
being.  They  come  to  serve  his  actual  wants,  never 
to  please  his  fancy.  These  arts  have  their  origin 
always  in  some  enthusiasm,  as  love,  patriotism,  or 
religion.  Who  carved  marble  ?  The  believing  man, 
who  wished  to  symbolize  their  gods  to  the  waiting 
Greeks. 

The  Gothic  cathedrals  were  built  when  the 
builder  and  the  priest  and  the  people  were  over 
powered  by  their  faith.  Love  and  fear  laid  every 
stone.  The  Madonnas  of  Raphael  and  Titian  were 
made  to  be  worshipped.  Tragedy  was  instituted 
for  the  like  purpose,  and  the  miracles  of  music :  all 
sprang  out  of  some  genuine  enthusiasm,  and  never 
out  of  dilettanteism  and  holidays.  Now  they  lan 
guish,  because  their  purpose  is  merely  exhibition. 
Who  cares,  who  knows  what  works  of  art  our  gov 
ernment  have  ordered  to  be  made  for  the  Capitol  ? 
They  are  a  mere  flourish  to  please  the  eye  of  per 
sons  who  have  associations  with  books  and  galler 
ies.  But  in  Greece,  the  Demos  of  Athens  divided 
into  political  factions  upon  the  merits  of  Phidias. 

In  this  country,  at  this  time,  other  interests  than 
religion  and  patriotism  are  predominant,  and  the 
arts,  the  daughters  of  enthusiasm,  do  not  flourish. 
The  genuine  offspring  of  our  ruling  passions  we 
behold.  Popular  institutions,  the  school,  the  read- 


ART.  51 

ing-room,  the  telegraph,  the  post-office,  the  ex 
change,  the  insurance-company,  and  the  immense 
harvest  of  economical  inventions^  are  the  fruit  of 
the  equality  and  the  boundless  liberty  of  lucrative 
callings.  These  are  superficial  wants  ;  and  their 
fruits  are  these  superficial  institutions.  But  as  far 
as  they  accelerate  the  end  of  political  freedom  and 
national  education,  they  are  preparing  the  soil  of 
man  for  fairer  flowers  and  fruits  in  another  age. 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  goodness  are  not  obsolete  ; 
they  spring  eternal  in  the  breast  of  man ;  they  are 
as  indigenous  in  Massachusetts  as  in  Tuscany  or 
the  Isles  of  Greece.  And  that  Eternal  Spirit, 
whose  triple  face  they  are,  moulds  from  them  for 
ever,  for  his  mortal  child,  images  to  remind  him  of 
the  Infinite  and  Fair. 


ELOQUENCE. 


L  I  B  K  A  K  Y 

CALIFOUNJA. 

\fcv__. . 

ELOQUENCE. 


IT  is  the  doctrine  of  the  popular  music-masters, 
that  whoever  can  speak  can  sing.  So,  probably, 
every  man  is  eloquent  once  in  his  life.  Our  tem 
peraments  differ  in  capacity  of  heat,  or,  we  boil  at 
different  degrees.  One  man  is  brought  to  the  boil 
ing-point  by  the  excitement  of  conversation  in  the 
parlor.  The  waters,  of  course,  are  not  very  deep. 
He  has  a  two-inch  enthusiasm,  a  patty-pan  ebullition. 
Another  requires  the  additional  caloric  of  a  multi 
tude,  and  a  public  debate  ;  a  third  needs  an  antag 
onist,  or  a  hot  indignation  ;  a  fourth  needs  a  revolu 
tion;  and  a  fifth,  nothing  less  than  the  grandeur  of 
absolute  ideas,  the  splendors  and  shades  of  Heaven 
and  Hell. 

But  because  every  man  is  an  orator,  how  long 
soever  he  may  have  been  a  mute,  an  assembly  of 
men  is  so  much  more  susceptible.  The  eloquence 
of  one  stimulates  all  the  rest,  some  up  to  the  speak 
ing-point,  and  all  others  to  a  degree  that  makes  them 
good  receivers  and  conductors,  and  they  avenge 
themselves  for  their  enforced  silence  by  increased 
loquacity  on  their  return  to  the  fireside. 


56  ELOQUENCE. 

The  plight  of  these  phlegmatic  brains  is  better 
than  that  of  those  who  prematurely  boil,  and 
who  impatiently  break  silence  before  their  time. 
Our  county  conventions  often  exhibit  a  small-pot- 
soon-hot  style  of  eloquence.  We  are  too  much  re 
minded  of  a  medical  experiment  where  a  series  of 
patients  are  taking  nitrous-oxide  gas.  Each  patient, 
in  turn,  exhibits  similar  symptoms,  —  redness  in  the 
face,  volubility,  violent  gesticulation,  delirious  atti 
tudes,  occasional  stamping,  an  alarming  loss  of  per 
ception  of  the  passage  of  time,  a  selfish  enjoyment 
of  his  sensations,  and  loss  of  perception  of  the  suffer 
ings  of  the  audience. 

Plato  says,  that  the  punishment  which  the  wise 
suffer,  who  refuse  to  take  part  in  the  government,  is, 
to  live  under  the  government  of  worse  men ;  and 
the  like  regret  is  suggested  to  all  the  auditors,  as 
the  penalty  of  abstaining  to  speak,  —  that  they  shall 
hear  worse  orators  than  themselves. 

But  this  lust  to  speak  marks  the  universal  feeling 
of  the  energy  of  the  engine,  and  the  curiosity  men 
feel  to  touch  the  springs.  Of  all  the  musical  instru 
ments  on  which  men  play,  a  popular  assembly  is 
that  which  has  the  largest  compass  and  variety,  and 
out  of  which,  by  genius  and  study,  the  most  won 
derful  effects  can  be  drawn.  An  audience  is  not 
a  simple  addition  of  the  individuals  that  compose  it. 
Their  sympathy  gives  them  a  certain  social  organism, 
which  fills  each  member,  in  his  own  degree,  and 


ELOQUENCE.  57 

most  of  all  the  orator,  as  a  jar  in  a  battery  is  charged 
with  the  whole  electricity  of  the  batteiy.  No*  one 
can  survey  the  face  of  an  excited  assembly,  without 
being  apprised  of  new  opportunity  for  painting  in 
fire  human  thought,  and  being  agitated  to  agitate. 
How  many  orators  sit  mute  there  below  !  They 
come  to  get  justice  done  to  that  ear  and  intuition 
which  no  Chatham  and  no  Demosthenes  has  begun 
to  satisfy. 

The  Welsh  Triads  say,  "  Many  are  the  friends  of 
the  golden  tongue. "  Who  can  wonder  at  the  attract 
iveness  of  Parliament,  or  of  Congress,  or  the  bar, 
for  our  ambitious  young  men,  when  the  highest 
bribes  of  society  are  at  the  feet  of  the  successful 
orator  ?  He  has  his  audience  at  his  devotion.  All 
other  fames  must  hush  before  his.  He  is  the  true 
potentate  ;  for  they  are  not  kings  who  sit  on  thrones, 
but  they  who  know  how  to  govern.  The  definitions 
of  eloquence  describe  its  attraction  for  young  men. 
Antiphon  the  Rhamnusian,  one  of  Plutarch's  ten 
orators,  advertised  in  Athens,  "  that  he  would  cure 
distempers  of  the  mind  with  words."  No  man  has 
a  prosperity  so  high  or  firm  but  two  or  three  words 
can  dishearten  it.  There  is  no  calamity  which  right 
words  will  not  begin  to  redress.  Isocrates  described 
his  art  as  "  the  power  of  magnifying  what  was 
small  and  diminishing  what  was  great,  "  —  an  acute 
but  partial  definition.  Among  the  Spartans,  the  art 
assumed  a  Spartan  shape,  namely,  of  the  sharpest 


58  ELOQUENCE. 

weapon.  Socrates  says :  "  If  any  one  wishes  tc 
converse  with  the  meanest  of  the  Lacedaemonians, 
he  will  at  first  find  him  despicable  in  conversation ; 
but,  when  a  proper  opportunity  offers,  this  same 
person,  like  a  skilful  jaculator,  will  hurl  a  sentence 
worthy  of  attention,  short  and  contorted,  so  that  he 
who  converses  with  him  will  appear  to  be  in  no  re 
spect  superior  to  a  boy."  Plato's  definition  of  rhet 
oric  is,  "  the  art  of  ruling  the  minds  of  men."  The 
Koran  says,  "  A  mountain  may  change  its  place, 
but  a  man  will  not  change  his  disposition  ";  yet  the 
end  of  eloquence  is,  —  is  it  not  ?  —  to  alter  in  a 
pair  of  hours,  perhaps  in  a  half-hour's  discourse,  the 
convictions  and  habits  of  years.  Young  men,  too, 
are  eager  to  enjoy  this  sense  of  added  power  and 
enlarged  sympathetic  existence.  The  orator  sees 
himself  the  organ  of  a  multitude,  and  concentrating 
their  valors  and  powers  : 

"  But  now  the  blood  of  twenty  thousand  men 
Blushed  in  my  face." 

That  which  he  wishes,  that  which  eloquence  ought 
to  reach,  is,  not  a  particular  skill  in  telling  a  story, 
or  neatly  summing  up  evidence,  or  arguing  logically, 
or  dexterously  addressing  the  prejudice  of  the  com 
pany,  —  no,  but  a  taking  sovereign  possession  of  the 
audience.  Him  we  call  an  artist,  who  shall  play  on 
an  assembly  of  men  as  a  master  on  the  keys  of  the 
piano,  —  who,  seeing  the  people  furious,  shall  softon 
and  compose  them,  shall  draw  them,  when  he  will. 


ELOQUENCE.  59 

to  laughter  and  to  tears.  Bring  him  to  his  audience, 
and,  be  they  who  they  may,  — coarse  or  refined, 
pleased  or  displeased,  sulky  or  savage,  with^their 
opinions  in  the  keeping  of  a  confessor,  or  with  their 
opinions  in  their  bank-safes,  —  he  will  have  them 
pleased  and  humored  as  he  chooses ;  and  they  shall 
carry  and  execute  that  which  he  bids  them. 

This  is  that  despotism  which  poets  have  celebrated 
in  the  "  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,"  whose  music  drew 
like  the  power  of  gravitation,  —  drew  soldiers  and 
priests,  traders  and  feasters,  women  and  boys,  rats 
and  mice  ;  or  that  of  the  minstrel  of  Meudon,  who 
made  the  pall-bearers  dance  around  the  bier.  This 
is  a  power  of  many  degrees,  and  requiring  in  the 
orator  a  great  range  of  faculty  and  experience,  re 
quiring  a  large  composite  man,  such  as  Nature 
rarely  organizes ;  so  tha||  in  our  experience,  we  are 
forced  to  gather  up  the  figure  in  fragments,  here 
one  talent,  and  there  another. 

The  audience  is  a  constant  metre  of  the  orator. 
There  are  many  audiences  in  every  public  assembly, 
each  one  of  which  rules  in  turn.  If  anything  comic 
and  coarse  is  spoken,  you  shall  see  the  emergence 
of  the  boys  and  rowdies,  so  loud  and  vivacious  that 
you  might  think  the  house  was  filled  with  them.  If 
new  topics  are  started,  graver  and  higher,  these 
roisters  recede  ;  a  more  chaste  and  wise  attention 
takes  place.  You  would  think  the  boys  slept,  and 
that  the  men  have  any  degree  of  profoundness.  If 


60  ELOQUENCE. 

the  speaker  utter  a  noble  sentiment,  the  attention 
deepens,  a  new  and  highest  audience  now  listens, 
and  the  audiences  of  the  fun  and  of  facts  and  of 
the  understanding  are  all  silenced  and  awed.  There 
is  also  something  excellent  in  every  audience,-^- 
the  capacity  of  virtue.  They  are  ready  to  be  beati 
fied.  They  know  so  much  more  than  the  orator,  — 
and  are  so  just !  There  is  a  tablet  there  for  every 
line  he  can  inscribe,  though  he  should  mount  to  the 
highest  levels.  Humble  persons  are  conscious  of 
new  illumination  ;  narrow  brows  expand  with  en 
larged  affections  ;  —  delicate  spirits,  long  unknown  to 
themselves,  masked  and  muffled  in  coarsest  fortunes, 
who  now  hear  their  own  native  language  for  the  first 
time,  and  leap  to  hear  it.  But  all  these  several  audi 
ences,  each  above  each,  which  successively  appear 
to  greet  the  variety  of  style  and  topic,  are  really 
composed  out  of  the  same  persons  ;  nay,  sometimes 
the  same  individual  will  take  active  part  in  them 
all,  in  turn. 

This  range  of  many  powers  in  the  consummate 
speaker,  and  of  many  audiences  in  one  assembly, 
leads  us  to  consider  the  successive  stages  of  oratory. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  lowest  of  the  qualities  of  an 
orator,  but  it  is,  on  so  many  occasions,  of  chief  im 
portance, —  a  certain  robust  and  radiant  physical 
health;  or,  —  shall  I  say? — great  volumes  of  animal 
heat.  When  each  auditor  feels  himself  to  make 
too  large  a  part  of  the  assembly,  and  shudders  with 


ELOQUENCE.  61 

cold  at  the  thinness  of  the  morning  audience,  and 
with  fear  lest  all  will  heavily  fail  through  one  bad 
speech,  mere  energy  and  mellowness  are  then  in 
estimable.  Wisdom  and  learning  would  be  harsh 
and  unwelcome,  compared  with  a  substantial  cordial 
man,  made  of  milk,  as  we  say,  who  is  a  house- 
warmer,  with  his  obvious  honesty  and  good  mean 
ing,  and  a  hue-and-cry  style  of  harangue,  which 
inundates  the  assembly  with  a  flood  of  animal 
spirits,  and  makes  all  safe  and  secure,  so  that  any 
and  every  sort  of  good  speaking  becomes  at  once 
practicable.  I  do  not  rate  this  animal  eloquence 
very  highly;  and  yet,  as  we  must  be  fed  and  warmed 
before  we  can  do  any  work  well,  —  even  the  best,  — 
so  is  this  semi-animal  exuberance,  like  a  good  stove, 
of  the  first  necessity  in  a  cold  house. 

Climate  has  much  to  do  with  it,  —  climate  and 
race.  Set  a  New-Englander  to  describe  any  acci 
dent  which  happened  in  his  presence.  What  hesi 
tation  and  reserve  in  his  narrative  !  He  tells  with 
difficulty  some  particulars,  and  gets  as  fast  as  h& 
can  to  the  result,  and,  though  he  cannot  describe, 
hopes  to  suggest  the  whole  scene.  Now  listen  to  a 
poor  Irishwoman  recounting  some  experience  of 
hers.  Her  speech  flows  like  a  river,  —  so  uncon- 
sidered,  so  humorous,  so  pathetic,  such  justice  done 
to  all  the  parts !  It  is  a  true  transubstantiation,  — 
the  fact  converted  into  speech,  all  warm  and  colored 
and  alive,  as  it  fell  out.  Our  Southern  people  are 


62  EL6QUENCE. 

alnvost  all  speakers,  and  have  every  advantage  rvef 
the  New  England  people,  whose  climate  is  so  cold 
that,  'tis  said,  we  do  not  like  to  open  our  mouths 
very  wide.  But  neither  can  the  Southerner  in  the 
United  States,  nor  the  Irish,  compare  with  the 
lively  inhabitant  of  the  south  of  Europe.  The 
traveller  in  Sicily  needs  no  gayer  melodramatic 
exhibition  than  the  table  d'hote  of  his  inn  will  af 
ford  him  in  the  conversation  of  the  joyous  guests. 
They  mimic  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  person 
they  describe  ;  they  crow,  squeal,  hiss,  cackle,  bark, 
and  scream  like  mad,  and,  were  it  Only  by  the  phys 
ical  strength  exerted  in  telling  the  story,  keep  the 
table  in  unbounded  excitement.  But  in  every  con 
stitution  some  large  degree  of  animal  vigor  is  neces 
sary  as  material  foundation  for  the  higher  qualities 
of  the  art. 

But  eloquence  must  be  attractive,  or  it  is  none. 
The  virtue  of  books  is,  to  be  readable,  and  of  ora 
tors,  to  be  interesting  ;  and  this  is  a  gift  of  Nature  ; 
as  Demosthenes,  the  most  laborious  student  in  that 
kind,  signified  his  sense  of  this  necessity  when  he 
wrote, u  Good  Fortune,"  as  his  motto  on  his  shield. 
As  we  know,  the  power  of  discourse  of  certain  in 
dividuals  amounts  to  fascination,  though  it  may  have 
no  lasting  effect.  Some  portion  of  this  sugar  must 
intermingle.  The  right  eloquence  needs  no  bell  to 
call  the  people  together,  and  no  constable  to  keep 
them.  It  draws  the  children  from  their  play,  the 


ELOQUENCE.  63 

old  from  their  arm-chairs,  the  invalid  from  his 
warm  chamber:  it  holds  the  hearer  fast;  steals 
away  his  feet,  that  he  shall  not  depart,  —  his  mem 
ory,  that  he  shall  not  remember  the  most  pressing 
affairs,  —  his  belief,  that  he  shall  not  admit  any 
opposing  considerations.  The  pictures  we  have  of 
it  in  semi-barbarous  ages,  when  it  has  some  advan 
tages  in  the  simpler  habit  of  the  people,  show  what 
it  aims  at.  It  is  said  that  the  Khans,  or  story-tel 
lers,  in  Ispahan  and  other  cities  of  the  East,  attain 
a  controlling  power  over  their  audience,  keeping 
them  for  many  hours  attentive  to  the  most  fanci 
ful  and  extravagant  adventures.  The  whole  world 
knows  pretty  well  the  style  of  these  improvisators, 
and  how  fascinating  they  are,  in  our  translations  of 
the  u  Arabian  Nights."  Scheherezade  tells  these 
stories  to  save  her  life,  and  the  delight  of  young 
Europe  and  young  America  in  them  r roves  that 
she  fairly  earned  it.  And  who  does  not  remember 
in  childhood  some  white  or  black  or  yellow  Sche 
herezade,  who,  by  that  talent  of  telling  endless  feats 
of  fairies  and  magicians,  and  kings  and  queens, 
was  more  dear  and  wonderful  to  a  circle  of  chil 
dren  than  any  orator  in  England  or  America  is 
now?  The  more  indolent  and  imaginative  com 
plexion  of  the  Eastern  nations  makes  them  much 
more  impressible  by  these  appeals  to  the  fancy. 

These  legends  are  only  exaggerations  of  real  oc 
currences,  and  every  literature  contains  these  high 


64  ELOQUENCE. 

compliments  to  the  art  of  the  orator  and  the  bard, 
from  the  Hebrew  and  the  Greek  down  to  the  Scot 
tish  Glenkindie,  who 

"  harpit  a  fish  out  o*  saut-water, 
Or  water  out  of  a  stone, 
Or  milk  out  of  a  maiden's  breast 
Who  bairn  had  never  none/* 

Homer  specially  delighted  in  drawing  the  same 
figure.  For  what  is  the  u  Odyssey  "  but  a  history 
of  the  orator,  in  the  largest  style,  carried  through 
a  series  of  adventures  furnishing  brilliant  oppor 
tunities  to  his  talent?  See  with  what  care  and 
pleasure  the  poet  brings  him  on  the  stage.  Helen 
is  pointing  out  to  Priam,  from  a  tower,  the  different 
Grecian  chiefs.  "  The  old  man  asked :  '  Tell  me, 
dear  child,  who  is  that  man,  shorter  by  a  head  than 
Agamemnon,  yet  he  looks  broader  in  his  shoulders 
and  breast.  His  arms  lie  on  the  ground,  but  he, 
like  a  leader,  walks  about  the  bands  of  the  men. 
He  seems  to  me  like  a  stately  ram,  who  goes  as 
a  master  of  the  flock.'  Him  answered  Helen, 
daughter  of  Jove  :  '  This  is  the  wise  Ulysses,  son 
of  Laertes,  who  was  reared  in  the  state  of  craggy 
Ithaca,  knowing  all  wiles  and  wise  counsels.'  To 
her  the  prudent  Antenor  replied  again  :  '  O  woman, 
you  have  spoken  truly.  For  once  the  wise  Ulysses 
came  hither  on  an  embassy,  with  Menelaus,  beloved 
by  Mars.  I  received  them,  and  entertained  them 
at  my  house.  I  became  acquainted  with  the  genius 


ELOQUENCE.  65 

and  the  prudent  judgments  of  both.  When  they 
mixed  with  the  assembled  Trojans,  and  stood,  the 
broad  shoulders  of  Menelaus  rose  above  the  other ; 
but,  both  sitting,  Ulysses  was  more  majestic.  When 
they  conversed,  and  interweaved  stories  and  opin 
ions  with  all,  Menelaus  spoke  succinctly,  —  few  but 
very  sweet  words,  since  he  was  not  talkative, 
nor  superfluous  in  speech,  and  was  the  younger. 
But  when  the  wise  Ulysses  arose,  and  stood,  and 
looked  down,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and 
neither  moved  his  sceptre  backward  nor  forward, 
but  held  it  still,  like  an  awkward  person,  you  would 
say  it  was  some  angry  or  foolish  man  ;  but  when  he 
sent  his  great  voice  forth  out  of  his  breast,  and  his 
words  fell  like  the  winter  snows,  not  then  would 
any  mortal  contend  with  Ulysses ;  and  we,  behold 
ing,  wondered  not  afterwards  so  much  at  his  as 
pect.'  "  *  Thus  he  does  not  fail  to  arm  Ulysses  at 
first  with  this  power  of  overcoming  all  opposition 
by  the  blandishments  of  speech.  Plutarch  tells  us 
that  Thucydides,  when  Archidamus,  king  of  Sparta, 
asked  him  which  was  the  best  wrestler,  —  Pericles 
or  he,  —  replied,  "  When  I  throw  him,  he  says  he 
was  never  down,  and  he  persuades  the  very  spec 
tators  to  believe  him.'*  Philip  of  Macedon  said  of 
Demosthenes,  on  hearing  the  report  of  one  of  his 
orations,  "  Had  I  been  there,  he  would  have  per 
suaded  me  to  take  up  arms  against  myself " ;  and 
*  Iliad,  III.  191. 


66  ELOQUENCE. 

Warren  Hastings  said  of  Burke's  speech  on  liia 
impeachment,  "  As  I  listened  to  the  orator,  I  felt 
for  more  than  half  an  hour  as  if  I  were  the  most 
culpable  being  on  earth." 

In  these  examples,  higher  qualities  have  already 
entered  ;  but  the  power  of  detaining  the  ear  by 
pleasing  speech,  and  addressing  the  fancy  and  im 
agination,  often  exists  without  higher  merits.  Thus 
separated,  as  this  fascination  of  discourse  aims  only 
at  amusement,  though  it  be  decisive  in  its  momentary 
effect,  it  is  yet  a  juggle,  and  of  no  lasting  power.  It 
is  heard  like  a  band  of  music  passing  through  the 
streets,  which  converts  all  the  passengers  into  poets, 
but  is  forgotten  as  soon  as  it  has  turned  the  next 
corner;  and  unless  this  oiled  tongue  could,  in  Orien 
tal  phrase,  lick  the  sun  and  moon  away,  it  must 
take  its  place  with  opium  and  brandy.  I  know  no 
remedy  against  it  but  cotton-wool,  or  the  wax  which 
Ulysses  stuffed  into  the  ears  of  his  sailors  to  pass  the 
Sirens  safely. 

There  are  all  degrees  of  power,  and  the  least  are 
interesting,  but  they  must  not  be  confounded.  There 
is  the  glib  tongue  and  cool  self-possession  of  the 
salesman  in  a  large  shop,  which,  as  is  well  known, 
overpower  the  prudence  and  resolution  of  house 
keepers  of  both  sexes.  There  is  a  petty  lawyer's 
fluency,  which  is  sufficiently  impressive  to  him  who 
is  devoid  of  that  talent,  though  it  be,  in  so  many 
cases,  nothing  more  than  a  facility  of  expressing  with 


ELOQUENCE.  67 

accuracy  and  speed  what  everybody  thinks  and  says 
more  slowly,  without  new  information,  or  precision 
of  thought,  —  but  the  same  thing,  neither  less  nor 
more.  It  requires  no  special  insight  to  edit  one  of 
our  country  newspapers.  Yet  whoever  can  say  off 
currently,  sentence  by  sentence,  matter  neither  bet 
ter  nor  worse  than  what  is  there  printed,  will  be 
very  impressive  to  our  easily  pleased  population. 
These  talkers  are  of  that  class  who  prosper,  like  the 
celebrated  schoolmaster,  by  being  only  one  lesson 
ahead  of  the  pupil.  Add  a  little  sarcasm,  and 
prompt  allusion  to  passing  occurrences,  and  you 
have  the  mischievous  member  of  Congress.  A  spice 
of  malice,  a  ruffian  touch  in  his  rhetoric,  will  do  him 
no  harm  with  his  audience.  These  accomplishments 
are  of  the  same  kind,  and  only  a  degree  higher  than 
the  coaxing  of  the  auctioneer,  or  the  vituperative 
style  well  described  in  the  street-word  "jawing." 
These  kinds  of  public  and  private  speaking  have 
their  use  and  convenience  to  the  practitioners ;  but 
we  may  say  of  such  collectively,  that  the  habit  of 
oratory  is  apt  to  disqualify  them  for  eloquence. 

One  of  our  statesmen  said,  "  The  curse  of  this 
country  is  eloquent  men."  And  one  cannot  wonder 
at  the  uneasiness  sometimes  manifested  by  trained 
statesmen,  with  large  experience  of  public  affairs, 
when  they  observe  the  disproportionate  advantage 
suddenly  given  to  oratory  over  the  most  solid  and 
accumulated  public  service.  In  a  Senate  or  other 


68  ELOQUENCE. 

business  committee,  the  solid  result  depends  on  a 
few  men  with  working-talent.  They  know  how  to 
deal  with  the  facts  before  them,  to  put  things  into 
a  practical  shape,  and  they  value  men  only  as  they 
ran  forward  the  work.  But  a  new  man  comes 
there,  who  has  no  capacity  for  helping  them  at  all, 
is  insignificant,  and  nobody  in  the  committee,  but 
has  a  talent  for  speaking.  In  the  debate  with  open 
doors,  this  precious  person  makes  a  speech,  which 
is  printed,  and  read  all  over  the  Union,  and  he  at 
once  becomes  famous,  and  takes  the  lead  in  the 
public  mind  over  all  these  executive  men,  who^  of 
course,  are  full  of  indignation  to  find  one  who  has 
no  tact  or  skill,  and  knows  he  has  none,  put  over 
them  by  means  of  this  talking-power  which  they 
despise. 

Leaving  behind  us  these  pretensions,  better  or 
worse,  to  come  a  little  nearer  to  the  verity,  —  elo 
quence  is  attractive  as  an  example  of  the  magic  of 
personal  ascendency,  —  a  total  and  resultant  power, 
rare,  because  it  requires  a  rich  coincidence  of  powers, 
intellect,  will,  sympathy,  organs,  and,  over  all,  good 
fortune  in  the  cause.  We  have  a  half-belief  that 
the  person  is  possible  who  can  counterpoise  all  other 
persons.  We  believe  that  there  may  be  a  man  who 
is  a  match  for  events,  —  one  who  never  found  his 
v  match,  —  against  whom  other  men  being  dashed  are 
broken,  —  one  of  inexhaustible  personal  resources, 
who  can  give  you  any  odds  and  beat  you.  What 


ELOQUENCE.  69 

we  really  wish  for  is  a  mind  equal  to  any  exigency. 
You  are  safe  in  your  rural  district,  or  in  the  city,  in 
.broad  daylight,  amidst  the  police,  and  under  the  eyes 
of  a  hundred  thousand  people.  But  how  is  it  on 
the  Atlantic,  in  a  storm,  —  do  you  understand  how 
to  infuse  your  reason  into  men  disabled  by  terror, 
and  to  bring  yourself  off  safe  then  ?  —  how  among 
thieves,  or  among  an  infuriated  populace,  or  among 
cannibals  ?  Face  to  face  with  a  highwayman  who 
has  every  temptation  and  opportunity  for  violence 
and  plunder,  can  you  bring  yourself  off  safe  by  your 
wit,  exercised  through  speech  ?  —  a  problem  easy 
enough  to  Caasar  or  Napoleon.  Whenever  a  man 
of  that  stamp  arrives,  the  highwayman  has  found  a 
master.  What  a  difference  between  men  in  power 
of  face !  A  man  succeeds  because  he  has  more 
power  of  eye  than  another,  and  so  coaxes  or  con 
founds  him.  The  newspapers,  every  week,  report 
the  adventures  of  some  impudent  swindler,  who,  by 
steadiness  of  carriage,  duped  those  who  should  have 
known  better.  Yet  any  swindlers  we  have  known 
are  novices  and  bunglers,  as  is  attested  by  their  ill 
name.  A  greater  power  of  face  would  accomplish 
anything,  and,  with  the  rest  of  their  takings,  take 
away  the  bad  name.  A  greater  power  of  carrying 
the  thing  loftily,  and  with  perfect  assurance,  would 
confound  merchant,  banker,  judge,  men  of  influence 
and  power, —  poet  and  president, — and  might  head 
any  party,  unseat  any  sovereign,  and  abrogate  any 


70  ELOQUENCE. 

constitution  in  Europe  and  America.  It  was  said 
that  a  man  has  at  one  step  attained  vast  power,  who 
has  renounced  his  moral  sentiment,  and  settled  fr 
with  himself  that  he  will  no  longer  stick  at  anything 
It  was  said  of  Sir  William  Pepperel,  one  of  th< 
worthies  of  New  England,  that,  "  put  him  when 
you  might,  he  commanded,  and  saw  what  he  willed 
come  to  pass."  Julius  Caesar  said  to  Metellus,  when 
that  tribune  interfered  to  hinder  him  from  entering 
the  Roman  treasury,  "  Young  man,  it  is  easier  for 
me  to  put  you  to  death  than  to  say  that  I  will " ; 
and  the  youth  yielded.  In  earlier  days,  he  was 
taken  by  pirates.  What  then  ?  He  threw  himself 
into  their  ship,  established  the  most  extraordinary 
intimacies,  told  them  stories,  declaimed  to  them ;  if 
they  did  not  applaud  his  speeches,  he  threatened 
them  with  hanging,  —  which  he  performed  after 
wards,  —  and,  in  a  short  time,  was  master  of  all  on 
board.  A  man  this  is  who  cannot  be  disconcerted, 
and  so  can  never  play  his  last  card,  but  has  a  reserve 
of  power  when  he  has  hit  his  mark.  With  a  serene 
face,  he  subverts  a  kingdom.  What  is  told  of  him 
is  miraculous ;  it  affects  men  so.  The  confidence 
of  men  in  him  is  lavish,  and  he  changes  the  face  of 
the  world,  and  histories,  poems,  and  new  philoso 
phies  arise  to  account  for  him.  A  supreme  com 
mander  over  all  his  passions  and  affections ;  but  the 
secret  of  his  ruling  is  higher  than  that.  It  is  the 
power  of  Nature  running  without  impediment  from 


ELOQUENCE.  71 

the  bruin  and  will  into  the  hands.  Men  and  wo 
men  are  his  game.  Where  they  are,  he  cannot  bo 
without  resource.  "  Whoso  can  speak  well,"  said 
Luther,  "  is  a  man."  It  was  men  of  this  stamp 
that  the  Grecian  States  used  to  ask  of  Sparta  for 
generals.  They  did  not  send  to  Lacedaemon  for 
troops,  but  they  said,  "Send  us  a  commander"; 
and  Pausanias,  or  Gylippus,  or  Brasidas,  or  Agis, 
was  despatched  by  the  Ephors. 

It  is  easy  to  illustrate  this  overpowering  person 
ality  by  these  examples  of  soldiers  and  kings ;  but 
there  are  men  of  the  most  peaceful  way  of  life,  and 
peaceful  principle,  who  are  felt,  wherever  they  go, 
as  sensibly  as  a  July  sun  or  a  December  frost,  — 
men  who,  if  they  speak,  are  heard,  though  they 
speak  in  a  whisper,  —  who,  when  they  act,  act  ef 
fectually,  and  what  they  do  is  imitated ;  and  these 
examples  may  be  found  on  very  humble  platforms, 
as  well  as  on  high  ones. 

In  old  countries,  a  high  money-value  is  set  on 
the  services  of  men  who  have  achieved  a  personal 
distinction.  He  who  has  points  to  carry  must  hire, 
not  a  skilful  attorney,  but  a  commanding  person.  A 
barrister  in  England  is  reputed  to  have  made  thirty 
or  forty  thousand  pounds  per  annum  in  representing 
the  claims  of  railroad  companies  before  committees 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  His  clients  pay  not 
so  much  for  legal  as  for  manly  accomplishments,  — 
for  courage,  conduct,  and  a  commanding .  social 


72  ELOQUENCE. 

position,  which  enable  him  to   make    their  claims 
*  heard  and  respected. 

I  know  very  well,  that,  among  our  cool  and  cal 
culating  people,  where  every  man  mounts  guard 
over  himself,  where  heats  and  panics  and  abandon 
ments  are  quite  out  of  the  system,  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  scepticism  as  to  extraordinary  influence. 
To  talk  of  an  overpowering  mind  rouses  the  same 
jealousy  and  defiance  which  one  may  observe 
round  a  table  where  anybody  is  recounting  the 
marvellous  anecdotes  of  mesmerism.  Each  audi 
tor  puts  a  final  stroke  to  the  discourse  by  exclaim 
ing,  u  Can  he  mesmerize  me?"  So  each  man  in 
quires  if  any  orator  can  change  Ms  convictions. 

But  does  any  one  suppose  himself  to  be  quite 
impregnable?  Does  he  think  that  not  possibly  a 
man  may  come  to  him  who  shall  persuade  him  out 
of  his  most  settled  determination  ?  —  for  example, 
good  sedate  citizen  as  he  is,  to  make  a  fanatic  of 
him,  —  or,  if  he  is  penurious,  to  squander  money  for 
some  purpose  he  now  least  thinks  of,  —  or,  if  he  is 
a  prudent,  industrious  person,  to  forsake  his  work, 
and  give  days  and  weeks  to  a  new  interest  ?  No, 
he  defies  any  one,  every  one.  Ah  !  he  is  thinking 
of  resistance,  and  of  a  different  turn  from  his  own. 
But  what  if  one  should  come  of  the  same  turn  of 
mind  as  his  own,  and  who  sees  much  farther  on  his 
own  way  than  he  ?  A  man  who  has  tastes  like 
mine,  but  in  greater  power,  will  rule  me  any  day, 
and  make  me  love  mv  ruler. 


ELOQUENCE.  73 

Thus  it  is  not  powers  of  speech  tnat  we  primarily 
consider  under  this  word  eloquence,  but  the  power 
that,  being  present,  gives  them  their  perfection, 
and,  being  absent,  leaves  them  a  merely  superficial 
value.  Eloquence  is  the  appropriate  organ  of  the 
highest  personal  energy.  Personal  ascendency  may 
exist  with  or  without  adequate  talent  for  its  expres 
sion.  It  is  as  surely  felt  as  a  mountain  or  a  planet ; 
but  when  it  is  weaponed  with  a  power  of  speech,  it 
seems  first  to  become  truly  human,  works  actively 
in  all  directions,  and  supplies  the  imagination  with 
fine  materials. 

This  circumstance  enters  into  every  considera 
tion  of  the  power  of  orators,  and  is  the  key  to  all 
their  effects.  In  the  assembly,  you  shall  find  the 
orator  and  the  audience  in  perpetual  balance ;  and 
the  predominance  of  either  is  indicated  by  the 
choice  of  topic.  If  the  talents  for  speaking  exist, 
but  not  the  strong  personality,  then  there  are  good 
speakers  who  perfectly  receive  and  express  the  will 
of  the  audience,  and  the  commonest  populace  is 
flattered  by  hearing  its  low  mind  returned  to  it 
with  every  ornament  which  happy  talent  can  add. 
But  if  there  be  personality  in  the  orator,  the  face 
of  things  changes.  The  audience  is  thrown  into 
the  attitude  of  pupil,,  follows  like  a  child  its  pre 
ceptor,  and  hears  what  he  has  to  say.  It  is  as 
if,  amidst  the  king's  council  at  Madrid,  Ximenes 
urged  that  an  advantage  might  be  gained  of  Francet 


74  ELOQUENCE. 

and  Mendoza  that  Flanders  might  be  kept  down, 
and  Columbus,  being  introduced,  w?as  interrogated 
whether  his  geographical  knowledge  could  aid  the 
cabinet,  and  he  can  say  nothing  to  one  party  or  to 
the  other,  but  he  can  show  how  all  Europe  can  be 
diminished  and  reduced  under  the  king,  by  annex 
ing  to  Spain  a  continent  as  large  as  six  or  ^even 
Europes. 

This  balance  between  the  orator  and  the  audi 
ence  is  expressed  in  what  is  called  the  pertinence 
of  the  speaker.  There  is  always  a  rivalry  between 
the  orator  and  the  occasion,  between  the  demands 
of  the  hour  and  the  prepossession  of  the  individual. 
The  emergency  which  has  convened  the  meeting  is 
usually  of  more  importance  than  anything  the  de 
baters  have  in  their  minds,  and  therefore  becomes 
imperative  to  them.  But  if  one  of  them  have  any 
thing  of  commanding  necessity  in  his  heart,  how 
speedily  he  will  find  vent  for  it,  and  with  the  ap 
plause  of  the  assembly  !  This  balance  is  observed 
in  the  privatest  intercourse.  Poor  Tom  never 
knew  the  time  when  the  present  occurrence  was 
so  trivial  that  he  could  tell  what  was  passing  in 
his  mind  without  being  checked  for  unseasonable 
speech ;  but  let  Bacon  speak,  and  wise  men  would 
rather  listen,  though  the  revolution  of  kingdoms  was 
on  foot.  I  have  heard  it  reported  of  an  eloquent 
preacher,  whose  voice  is  not  yet  forgotten  in  this 
city,  that,  on  occasions  of  death  or  tragic  disaster, 


'ELOQUENCE  75 

•which  overspread  the  congregation  with  gloom,  he 
ascended  the  pulpit  with  more  than  his  usual  alac 
rity,  and,  turning  to  his  favorite  lessons  of  devout  and 
jubilant  thankfulness,  —  "  Let  us  praise  the  Lord," 
—  carried  audience,  mourners,  and  mourning  along 
with  him,  and  swept  away  all  the  impertinence 
of  private  sorrow  with  his  hosannas  and  songs  of 
praise.  Pepys  says  of  Lord  Clarendon  (with  whom 
"  he  is  mad  in  love  "),  on  his  return  from  a  con 
ference,  "  I  did  never  observe  how  much  easier  a 
man  do  speak  when  he  knows  all  the  company  to 
be  below  him,  than  in  him ;  for,  though  he  spoke 
indeed  excellent  well,  yet  his  manner  and  freedom 
of  doing  it,  as  if  he  played  with  it,  and  was  in 
form  »ng  only  all  the  rest  of  the  company,  was 
mi/^xty  pretty."  * 

This  rivalry  between  the  orator  and  the  occasion 
is  inevitable,  and  the  occasion  always  yields  to  the 
eminence  of  the  speaker;  for  a  great  man  is  the 
greatest  of  occasions.  Of  course,  the  interest  of 
the  audience  and  of  the  .orator  conspire.  It  is  well 
with  them  only  when  his  influence  is  complete ; 
then  only  they  are  well  pleased.  Especially,  he 
consults  his  power  by  making  instead  of  taking  his 
theme.  If  he  should  attempt  to  instruct  the  peo 
ple  in  that  which  they  already  know,  he  would  fail ; 
but,  by  making  them  wise  in  that  which  he  knows, 
he  has  the  advantage  of  the  assembly  every  mo- 

*  Diary,  I.  169. 


76  ELOQUENCE. 

ment.  Napoleon's  tactics  of  marching  on  the  angle 
of  an  army,  and  always  presenting  a  superiority  of 
numbers,  is  the  orator's  secret  also. 

The  several  talents  which  the  orator  employs,  the 
splendid  weapons  which  went  to  the  equipment  of 
Demosthenes,  of  ^Eschines,  of  Demades  the  natural 
orator,  of  Fox,  of  Pitt,,  of  Patrick  Henry,  of  Adams, 
of  Mirabeau,  deserve  a  special  enumeration.  We 
must  not  quite  omit  to  name  the  principal  pieces. 

The  orator,  as  wre  have  seen,  must  be  a  substan 
tial  personality.  Then,  first,  he  must  have  powrer 
of  statement,  —  must  have  the  fact,  and  know  how 
to  tell  it.  In  any  knot  of  men  conversing  on  any 
subject,  the  person  who  knows  most  about  it  will 
have  the  ear  of  the  company,  if  he  wishes  it,  and 
lead  the  conversation,  —  no  matter  what  genius  or 
distinction  other  men  there  present  may  have ;  and 
in  any  public  assembly,  him  who  has  the  facts,  and 
can  and  will  state  them,  people  will  listen  to,  though 
he  is  otherwise  ignorant,  though  he  is  hoarse  and 
ungraceful,  though  he  stutters  and  screams. 

In  a  court  of  justice,  the  audience  are  impartial ; 
they  really  wish  to  sift  the  statements  and  know 
what  the  truth  is.  And  in  the  examination  of  wit 
nesses  there  usually  leap  out,  quite  unexpectedly, 
three  or  four  stubborn  \vords  or  phrases  which  are 
the  pith  and  fate  of  the  business,  which  sink  into 
the  ear  of  all  parties,  and  stick  there,  and  determine 
the  cause.  All  the  rest  is  repetition  and  qualifying ; 


ELOQUENCE.  77 

and  the  court  and  the  county  have  really  come 
together  to  arrive  at  these  three  or  four  memorable 
expressions,  which  betrayed  the  mind  and  meaning 
of  somebody, 

In  every  company,  the  man  with  the  fact  is  like 
the  guide  you  hire  to  lead  your  party  up  a  moun 
tain,  or  through  a  difficult  country.  He  may  not 
compare  with  any  of  the  party  in  mind,  or  breeding, 
or  courage,  or  possessions,  but  he  is  much  more  im 
portant  to  the  present  need  than  any  of  them.  That 
is  what  we  go  to  the  court-house  for,  —  the  state 
ment  of  the  fact,  and  the  elimination  of  a  general 
fact,  the  real  relation  of  all  the  parties ;  and  it  is  the 
certainty  with  which,  indifferently  in  any  affair  that 
is  well  handled,  the  truth  stares  us  in  the  face, 
through  all  the  disguises  that  are  put  upon  it,  —  a 
piece  of  the  well-known  human  life,  —  that  makes 
the  interest  of  a  court-room  to  the  intelligent  spec 
tator. 

I  remember,  long  ago,  being  attracted  by  the  dis 
tinction  of  the  counsel,  and  the  local  importance  of 
the  cause,  into  the  court-room.  The  prisoner's 
counsel  were  the  strongest  and  cunningest  lawyers 
in  the  Commonwealth.  They  drove  the  attorney 
for  the  State  from  corner  to  corner,  taking  his  rea 
sons  from  under  him,  and  reducing  him  to  silence, 
but  not  to  submission.  When  hard  pressed,  he  re 
venged  himself,  in  his  turn,  on  the  judge,  by  requir 
ing  the  court  to  define  what  salvage  was.  The 


78  ELOQUENCE. 

court,  thus  pushed,  tried  words,  and  said  everything 
it  could  think  of  to  fill  the  time,  supposing  cases, 
and  describing  duties  of  insurers,  captains,  pilots, 
and  miscellaneous  sea-officers  that  are  or  might  be, 

—  like  a  schoolmaster  puzzled  by  a  hard  sum,  who 
reads  the  context  with  emphasis.     But  all  this  flood 
not  serving  the  cuttle-fish  to  get  away  in,  the  hor 
rible  shark  of  the  district-attorney  being  still  there, 
grimly  awaiting  with  his  "  The  court  must  define," 

—  the  poor  court  pleaded  its  inferiority.     The  su 
perior  court  must  establish  the  law  for  this,  and  it 
read  away  piteously  the   decisions  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  but  read  to  those  who  had  no  pity.     The 
judge  was  forced  at  last  to  rule  something,  and  the 
lawyers  saved  their  rogue  under  the  fog  of  a  defi 
nition.  The  parts  were  so  well  cast  and  discriminat 
ed,  that  it  was  an  interesting  game  to  watch.     The 
government  was  well  enough  represented.     It  was 
stupid,  but  it  had  a  strong  will  and  possession,  and 
stood  on  that  to  the  last.     The  judge  had  a  task 
beyond  his  preparation,  yet  his  position  remained 
real:  he  was  there  to  represent  a  great  reality, — 
the  justice  of  states,  which  we  could  well  enough 
see  beetling  over  his  head,  and  which  his  trifling 
talk  nowise  affected,  and  did  not  impede,  since  he 
was  entirely  well-meaning. 

The  statement  of  the  fact,  however,  sinks  before 
the  statement  of  the  law,  which  requires  immeasur 
ably  higher  powers,  and  is  a  rarest  gift,  being  in  all 


ELOQUENCE.  79 

great  masters  one  and  the  same  thing,  —  in  lawyers, 
•nothing  technical,  but  always  some  piece  of  common 
sense,  alike  interesting  to  laymen  as  to  clerks.  Lord 
Mansfield's  merit  is  the  merit  of  common  sense.  It 
is  the  same  quality  we  admire  in  Aristotle,  Mon 
taigne,  Cervrantes,  or  in  Samuel  Johnson,  or  Frank 
lin.  Its  application  to  law  seems  quite  accidental. 
Each  of  Mansfield's  famous  decisions  contains  a  level 
sentence  or  two,  which  hit  the  mark.  His  sentences 
are  not  always  finished  to  the  eye,  but  are  finished 
to  the  mind.  The  sentences  are  involved,  but  a 
solid  proposition  is  set  forth,  a  true  distinction  is 
drawn.  They  come  from  and  they  go  to  the  sound 
human  understanding  ;  and  I  read  without  surprise 
that  the  black-letter  lawyers  of  the  day  sneered  at 
his  "  equitable  decisions,"  as  if  they  were  not  also 
learned.  This,  indeed,  is  what  speech  is  for,  —  to 
make  the  statement ;  and  all  that  is  called  eloquence 
seems  to  me  of  little  use,  for  the  most  part,  to  those 
who  have  it,  but  inestimable  to  such  as  have  some 
thing  to  say. 

Next  to  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  and  its  law  is 
method,  which  constitutes  the  genius  and  efficiency 
of  all  remarkable  men.  A  crowd  of  men  go  up  to 
Faneuil  Hall ;  they  are  all  pretty  well  acquainted 
with  the  object  of  the  meeting ;  they  have  all  read 
the  facts  in  the  same  newspapers.  The  orator  pos 
sesses  no  information  which  his  hearers  have  not ; 
yet  he  teaches  them  to  see  the  thing  with  his  eyes. 


80  ELOQUENCE. 

By  the  new  placing,  the  circumstances  acquire  new 
solidity  and  worth.  Every  fact  gains  consequence 
by  his  naming  it,  and  trifles  become  important.  His 
expressions  fix  themselves  in  men's  memories,  and 
fly  from  mouth  to  mouth.  His  mind  has  some  new 
principle  of  order.  Where  he  looks,  all  things  fly 
into  their  places.  What  will  he  say  next  ?  Let 
this  man  speak,  and  this  m;m  only.  By  applying 
the  habits  of  a  higher  style  of  thought  to  the  com 
mon  affairs  of  this  world,  he  introduces  beauty  and 
magnificence  wherever  he  goes.  Such  a  power 
was  Burke's,  and  of  this  genius  we  have  had  some 
brilliant  examples  in  our  own  political  and  legal  men. 
Imagery.  The  orator  must  be,  to  a  certain  ex 
tent,  a  poet.  We  are  such  imaginative  creatures, 
that  nothing  so  works  on  the  human  mind,  barba 
rous  or  civil,  as  a  trope.  Condense  some  daily  ex 
perience  into  a  glowing  symbol,  and  an  audience  is 
electrified.  They  feel  as  if  they  already  possessed 
some  new  right  and  power  over  a  fact,  which  they 
can  detach,  and  so  completely  master  in  thought. 
It  is  a  wonderful  aid  to  the  memory,  which  carries 
away  the  image,  and  never  loses  it.  A  popular  as 
sembly,  like  the  House  of  Commons,  or  the  French 
Chamber,  or  the  American  Congress,  is  commanded 
by  these  two  powers,  —  first  by  a  fact,  then  by  skill 
of  statement.  Put  the  argument  into  a  concrete 

O 

shape,  into  an  image,  —  some  hard  phrase,  round 
and  solid  as  a  ball,  which  they  can  see  and  handle 


ELOQUENCE.  81 

and  cany  home  with  them,  —  and  the  cause  is  half 
won. 

Statement,  method,  imagery,  selection,  tenacity 
of  memory,  power  of  dealing  with  facts,  of  illuminat 
ing  them,  of  sinking  them  by  ridicule  or  by  diversion 
of  the  mind,  rapid  generalization,  humor,  pathos,  are 
keys  which  the  orator  holds ;  and  yet  these  fine 
gifts  are  not  eloquence,  and  do  often  hinder  a  man's 
attainment  of  it.  And  if  we  come  to  the  heart  of 
the  mystery,  perhaps  we  should  say  that  the  truly 
eloquent  man  is  a  sane  man  with  power  to  commu 
nicate  his  sanity.  If  you  arm  the  man  with  the  ex 
traordinary  weapons  of  this  art,  give  him  a  grasp  of 
facts,  learning,  quick  fancy,  sarcasm,  splendid  allu 
sion,  interminable  illustration,  —  all  these  talents,  so 
potent  and  charming,  have  an  equal  power  to  in- 
snare  and  mislead  the  audience  and  the  orator. 
His  talents  are  too  much  for  him,  his  horses  run 
away  with  him ;  and  people  always  perceive  wheth 
er  you  drive,  or  whether  the  horses  take  the  bits  in 
their  teeth  and  run.  But  these  talents  are  quite 
something  else  when  they  are  subordinated  and 
serve  him  ;  and  we  go  to  Washington,  or  to  West 
minster  Hall,  or  might  well  go  round  the  world,  to 
see  a  man  who  drives,  and  is  not  run  away  with, — 
a  man  who,  in  prosecuting  great  designs,  has  an  ab 
solute  command  of  the  means  of  representing  his 
ideas,  and  uses  them  only  to  express  these  ;  placing 
facts,  placing  men  :  amid  the  inconceivable  levity  of 


82  ELOQUENCE. 

human  beings,  never  for  an  instant  warped  from 
his  erectness.  There  is  for  every  man  a  statement 
possible  of  that  truth  which  he  is  most  unwilling  to 
receive,  —  a  statement  possible,  so  broad  and  so 
pungent  that  he  cannot  get  away  from  it,  but  must 
either  bend  to  it  or  die  of  it.  Else  there  would  be 
no  such  word  as  eloquence,  which  means  this.  The 
listener  cannot  hide  from  himself  that  something  has 
been  shown  him  and  the  whole  world,  which  he  did 
not  wish  to  see ;  and,  as  he  cannot  dispose  of  it,  it 
disposes  of  him.  The  history  of  public  men  and 
affairs  in  America  will  readily  furnish  tragic  ex 
amples  of  this  fatal  force. 

For  the  triumphs  of  the  art  somewhat  more  must 
still  be  required,  namely,  a  reinforcing  of  man  from, 
events,  so  as  to  give  the  double  force  of  reason  and 
destiny.  In  transcendent  eloquence,  there  was 
ever  some  crisis  in  affairs,  such  as  could  deeply  en 
gage  the  man  to  the  cause  he  pleads,  and  draw  all 
this  wide  power  to  a  point.  For  the  explosions  and 
eruptions,  there  must  be  accumulations  of  heat 
somewhere,  beds  of  ignited  anthracite  at  the  centre. 
And  in  cases  where  profound  conviction  has  been 
wrought,  the  eloquent  man  is  he  who  is  no  beauti 
ful  speaker,  but  who  is  inwardly  drunk  with  a  cer 
tain  belief.  It  agitates  and  tears  him,  and  perhaps 
almost  bereaves  him  of  the  power  of  articulation. 
Then  it  rushes  from  him  as  in  short,  abrupt  screams, 
In  torrents  of  meaning.  The  possession  the  subject 


ELOQUENCE.  83 

has  W  his  axTii  ;s  so  entire,  that  it  insures  an 
ordii.r  of  expression  which  is  the  order  of  Nature  it 
self,  and  so  the  order  of  greatest  force,  and  inimit 
able  by  aay  art.  And  the  main  distinction  between 
him  and  other  well-graced  actors  is  the  conviction, 
communicated  by  every  word,  that  his  mind  is  con 
templating  a  whole,  and  inflamed  by  the  contem 
plation  of  the  whole,  and  that  the  words  and  sen 
tences  uttered  by  him,  however  admirable,  fall  from 
him  as  unregarded  parts  of  that  terrible  whole 
which  he  sees,  and  which  he  means  that  you  shall 
see.  Add  to  this  concentration  a  certain  regnant 
calmness,  which,  in  all  the  tumult,  never  utters  a 
premature  syllable,  but  keeps  the  secret  of  its 
means  and  method ;  and  the  orator  stands  before 
the  people  as  a  demoniacal  power  to  whose  miracles 
they  have  no  key.  This  terrible  earnestness  makes 
good  the  ancient  superstition  of  the  hunter,  that 
the  bullet  will  hit  its  mark,  which  is  first  dipped  in 
the  marksman's  blood. 

Eloquence  must  be  grounded  on  the  plainest  nar 
rative.  Afterwards,  it  may  warm  itself  until  it  ex 
hales  symbols  of  every  kind  and  color,  speaks  only 
through  the  most  poetic  forms ;  but,  first  and  last, 
it  must  still  be  at  bottom  a  biblical  statement  of 
fact.  The  orator  is  thereby  an  orator,  that  he 
keeps  his  feet  ever  on  a  fact.  Thus  only  is  he  in 
vincible.  No  gifts,  no  graces,  no  power  of  wit  or 
learning  or  illustration,  will  make  any  amends  for 


84  ELOQUENCE. 

want  of  this.  All  audiences  are  just  to  this  point. 
Fame  of  voice  or  of  rhetoric  will  carry  people  a 
few  times  to  hear  a  speaker ;  but  they  soon  begin  to 
ask,  "  What  is  he  driving  at  ? "  and  if  this  man 
does  not  stand  for  anything,  he  will  be  deserted. 
A  good  upholder  of  anything  which  they  believe,  a 
fact-speaker  of  any  kind,  they  will  long  follow ;  but 
a  pause  in  the  speaker's  own  character  is  very 
properly  a  loss  of  attraction.  The  preacher  enumer 
ates  his  classes  of  men,  and  I  do  not  find  my  place 
therein  ;  I  suspect,  then,  that  no  man  does.  Every 
thing  is  my  cousin ;  and  whilst  he  speaks  things,  I 
feel  that  he  is  touching  some  of  my  relations,  and  I 
am  uneasy ;  but  whilst  he  deals  in  words,  we  are 
released  from  attention.  If  you  would  lift  me, 
you  must  be  on  higher  ground.  If  you  would  lib 
erate  me,  you  must  be  free.  If  you  would  correct 
my  false  view  of  facts,  —  hold  up  to  me  the  same 
facts  in  the  true  order  of  thought,  and  I  cannot  go 
back  from  the  new  conviction. 

The  power  of  Chatham,  of  Pericles,  of  Luther, 
rested  on  this  strength  of  character,  which,  because 
it  did  not  and  could  not  fear  anybody,  made  noth 
ing  of  their  antagonists,  and  became  sometimes  ex 
quisitely  provoking  and  sometimes  terrific  to  these. 

We  are  slenderly  furnished  with  anecdotes  of 
these  men,  nor  can  we  help  ourselves  by  those 
heavy  books  in  which  their  discourses  are  reported. 
Some  of  them  were  writers,  like  Burke ;  but  most 


ELOQUENCE.  85 

of  them  were  not,  and  no  record  at  all  adequate 
to  their  fame  remains.  Besides,  what  is  best  is 
lost,  —  the  fiery  life  of  the  moment.  But  the  con 
ditions  for  eloquence  always  exist.  It  is  always  dy 
ing  out  of  famous  places,  and  appearing  in  corners. 
Wherever  the  polarities  meet,  wherever  the  fresh 
moral  sentiment,  the  instinct  of  freedom  and  duty, 
come  in  direct  opposition  to  fossil  conservatism  and 
the  thirst  of  gain,  the  spark  will  pass.  The  resist 
ance  to  slavery  in  this  country  has  been  a  fruitful 
nursery  of  orators.  The  natural  connection  by 
which  it  drew  to  itself  a  train  of  moral  reforms,  and 
the  slight  yet  sufficient  party  organization  it  offered, 
reinforced  the  city  with  new  blood  from  the  woods 
and  mountains.  Wild  men,  John  Baptists,  Hermit 
Peters,  John  Knoxes,  utter  the  savage  sentiment  of 
Nature  in  the  heart  of  commercial  capitals.  They 
send  us  every  year  some  piece  of  aboriginal  strength, 
some  tough  oak-stick  of  a  man  who  is  not  to  be  si 
lenced  or  insulted  or  intimidated  by  a  mob,  because 
he  is  more  mob  than  they,  —  one  who  mobs  the 
mob,  —  some  sturdy  countryman,  on  whom  neither 
money,  nor  politeness,  nor  hard  words,  nor  eggs, 
nor  blows,  nor  brickbats,  make  any  impression, 
lie  is  fit  to  meet  the  bar-room  wits  and  bullies  ;  he 
is  a  wit  and  a  bully  himself,  and  something  more : 
he  is  a  graduate  of  the  plough,  and  the  stub-hoe, 
and  the  bushwhacker;  knows  all  the  secrets  of 
swamp  and  snow-bank,  and  has  nothing  to  learn  of 


86  ELOQUENCE. 

labor  or  poverty  or  the  rough  of  farming.  His  hard 
head  went  through,  in  childhood,  the  drill  of  Cal 
vinism,  with  text  and  mortification,  so  that  he 
stands  in  the  New  England  assembly  a  purer  bit  of 
New  England  than  any,  and  flings  his  sarcasms 
right  and  left.  He  has  not  only  the  documents  in 
his  pocket  to  answer  all  cavils,  and  to  prove  all  his 
positions,  but  he  has  the  eternal  reason  in  his  head. 
This  man  scornfully  renounces  your  civil  organiza 
tions, —  county,  or  city,  or  governor,  or  army, — 
is  his  own  navy  and  artillery,  judge  and  jury,  legis 
lature  and  executive.  He  has  learned  his  lessons 
in  a  bitter  school.  Yet,  if  the  pupil  be  of  a  texture 
to  bear  it,  the  best  university  that  can  be  recom 
mended  to  a  man  of  ideas  is  the  gauntlet  of  the 
mobs. 

He  who  will  train  himself  to  mastery  in  this  sci 
ence  of  persuasion  must  lay  the  emphasis  of  educa 
tion,  not  on  popular  arts,  but  on  character  and  in 
sight.  Let  him  see  that  his  speech  is  not  differenced 
from  action  ;  that,  when  he  has  spoken,  he  has  not 
done  nothing,  nor  done  wrong,  but  has  cleared  his 
own  skirts,  has  engaged  himself  to  wholesome  exer 
tion.  Let  him  look  on  opposition  as  opportunity. 
He  cannot  be  defeated  or  put  down.  There  is  a 
principle  of  resurrection  in  him,  an  immortality  of 
purpose.  Men  are  averse  and  hostile,  to  give  value 
to  their  suffrages.  It  is  not  the  people  that  are  in 
fault  for  not  being  convinced,  but  he  that  cannot 


ELOQUENCE.  87 

convince  them.  He  should  mould  them,  armed 
as  he  is  with  the  reason  and  love  which  are  also  the 
core  of  their  nature.  He  is  not  to  neutralize  their 
opposition,  but  he  is  to  convert  them  into  fiery  apos 
tles  and  publishers  of  the  same  wisdom. 

The  highest  platform  of  eloquence  is  the  moral 
sentiment.  It  is  what  is  called  affirmative  truth, 
and  has  the  property  of  invigorating  the  hearer ; 
and  it  conveys  a  hint  of  our  eternity,  when  he 
feels  himself  addressed  on  grounds  which  will  re 
main  when  everything  else  is  taken,  and  which  have 
no  trace  of  time  or  place  or  party.  Everything 
hostile  is  stricken  down  in  the  presence  of  the  sen 
timents  ;  their  majesty  is  felt  by  the  most  obdurate. 
It  is  observable  that,  as  soon  as  one  acts  for  large 
masses,  the  moral  element  will  and  must  be  allowed 
for,  will  and  must  work ;  and  the  men  least  accus 
tomed  to  appeal  to  these  sentiments  invariably  re 
call  them  when  they  address  nations.  Napoleon, 
even,  must  accept  and  use  it  as  he  can. 

It  is  only  to  these  simple  strokes  that  the  highest 
power  belongs,  —  when  a  weak  human  hand  touches, 
point  by  point,  the  eternal  beams  and  rafters  on 
which  the  whole  structure  of  Nature  and  society  is 
faid.  In  this  tossing  sea  of  delusion,  we  feel  with  our 
feet  the  adamant ;  in  this  dominion  of  chance,  we 
hnd  a  principle  of  permanence.  For  I  do  not  ac 
cept  that  definition  of  Isocrates,  that  the  office  of 
bis  art  is,  to  make  the  great  small  and  the  small 


88  ELOQUENCE. 

gre^f;  but  I  esteem  this  to  be  its  perfection,  — 
when,  the  orator  sees  through  all  masks  to  the  eter 
nal  s^ale  of  truth,  in  such  sort  that  he  can  hold  up 
before  the  eyes  of  men  the  fact  of  to-day  steadily 
to  that  standard,  thereby  making  the  great  great, 
and  the  small  small,  which  is  the  true  way  to  aston 
ish  and  to  reform  mankind. 

All  the  chief  orators  of  the  world  have  been  grave 
men-  relying  on  this  reality.  One  thought  the  phi 
losophers  of  Demosthenes's  own  time  found  run 
ning  through  all  his  orations,  —  this  namely,  that 
"  virtue  secures  its  own  success."  "  To  stand  on 
one's  own  feet "  Heeren  finds  the  key-note  to  the 
discourses  of  Demosthenes,  as  of  Chatham. 

Eloquence,  like  every  other  art,  rests  on  laws  the 
most  exact  and  determinate.  It  is  the  best  speech 
of  the  best  soul.  It  may  well  stand  as  the  exponent 
of  all  that  is  grand  and  immortal  in  the  mind.  If  it 
do  not  so  become  an  instrument,  but  aspires  to  be 
somewhat  of  itself,  and  to  glitter  for  show,  it  is  false 
and  weak.  In  its  right  exercise,  it  is  an  elastic, 
unexhausted  power,  —  who  has  sounded,  who  has 
estimated  it  ?  —  expanding  with  the  expansion  of 
our  interests  and  affections.  Its  great  masters, 
whilst  they  valued  every  help  to  its  attainment, 
and  thought  no  pains  too  great  which  contributed 
in  any  manner  to  further  it ;  —  resembling  the  Ara 
bian  warrior  of  fame,  who  wore  seventeen  weapons 
in  his  belt,  and  in  personal  combat  used  them  all 


ELOQUENCE.  89 

occasionally  ;  —  yet  subordinated  all  means  ;  never 
permitted  any  talent  —  neither  voice,  rhythm,  poetic 
power,  anecdote,  sarcasm  —  to  appear  for  show  ;  but 
were  grave  men,  who  preferred  their  integrity  to 
their  talent,  and  esteemed  that  object  for  which  they 
toiled,  whether  the  prosperity  of  their  country,  or 
the  laws,  or  a  reformation,  or  liberty  of  speech  or 
of  the  press,  or  letters,  or  morals,  as  above  the 
whole  world3  and  themselves  also. 


DOMESTIC    LIFE 


DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

THE  perfection  of  the  providence  for  childhood  ia 
easily  acknowledged.  The  care  which  covers  the 
seed  of  the  tree  under  tough  husks  and  stony  cases 
provides  for  the  human  plant  the  mother's  breast 
and  the  father's  house.  The  size  of  the  nestler  is 
comic,  and  its  tiny  beseeching  weakness  is  compen 
sated  perfectly  by  the  happy  patronizing  look  of  the 
mother,  who  is  a  sort  of  high  reposing  Providence 
toward  it.  Welcome  to  the  parents  the  puny  strug- 
gler,  strong  in  his  weakness,  his  little  arms  more  ir 
resistible  than  the  soldier's,  his  lips  touched  with 
persuasion  which  Chatham  and  Pericles  in  man 
hood  had  not.  His  unaffected  lamentations  when 
he  lifts  up  his  voice  on  high,  or,  more  beautiful,  the 
sobbing  child,  —  the  face  all  liquid  grief,  as  he  tries 
to  swallow  his  vexation,  —  soften  all  hearts  to  pity, 
and  to  mirthful  and  clamorous  compassion.  The 
small  despot  asks  so  little  that  all  reason  and  all  na 
ture  are  on  his  side.  His  ignorance  is  more  charm 
ing  than  all  knowledge,  and  his  little  sins  more  be 
witching  than  any  virtue.  His  flesh  is  angels'  flesh, 
all  alive.  u  Infancy,"  said  Coleridge,  "  presents 


9-4  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

body  and  spirit  in  unity :  the  body  is  all  animated." 
All  day,  between  his  three  or  four  sleeps,  he  coos 
like  a  pigeon-house,  sputters,  and  spurs,  and  puts 
on  his  faces  of  importance ;  and  when  he  fasts,  the 
little  Pharisee  fails  not  to  sound  his  trumpet  before 
him.  By  lamplight  he  delights  in  shadows  on  the 
wall;  by  daylight,  in  yellow  and  scarlet.  Carry 
him  out  of  doors,  —  he  is  overpowered  by  the  light 
and  by  the  extent  of  natural  objects,  and  is  silent. 
Then  presently  begins  his  use  of  his  fingers,  and  he 
.studies  power,  the  lesson  of  his  race.  First  it  ap 
pears  in  no  great  harm,  in  architectural  tastes.-  Out 
of  blocks,  thread-spools,  cards,  and  checkers,  he  will 
build  his  pyramid  with  the  gravity  of  Palladio. 
With  an  acoustic  apparatus  of  whistle  and  rattle  he 
explores  the  laws  of  sound.  But  chiefly,  like  his 
senior  countrymen,  the  young  American  studies 
new  and  speedier  modes  of  transportation.  Mis 
trusting  the  cunning  of  his  small  legs,  he  wishes  to 
ride  on  the  necks  and  shoulders  of  all  flesh.  The 
small  enchanter  nothing  can  withstand,  —  no  sen 
iority  of  age,  no  gravity  of  character ;  uncles,  aunts, 
grandsires,  grandams,  fall  an  easy  prey :  he  con 
forms  to  nobody,  all  conform  to  him ;  all  caper  and 
make  mouths,  and  babble,  and  chirrup  to  him.  On 
the  strongest  shoulders  he  rides,  and  pulls  the  hair 
of  laurelled  heads. 

"  The  childhood,"  said  Milton,  "  shows  the  man, 
as  morning  shows  the  day."     The  child  realizes  to 


DOMESTIC   LIFE.'  95 

every  man  his  own  earliest  remembrance,  and  so 
supplies  a  defect  in  our  education,  or  enables  us  to 
live  over  the  unconscious  history  with  a  sympathy 
so  tender  as  to  be  almost  personal  experience. 

Fast  —  almost  too  fast  for  the  wistful  curiosity  of 
the  parents,  studious  of  the  witchcraft  of  curls  and 
dimples  and  broken  words  —  the  little  talker  grows 
to  a  boy.  He  walks  daily  among  wonders :  fire, 
light,  darkness,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  furniture  of 
the  house,  the  red  tin  horse,  the  domestics,  who  like 
rude  foster-mothers  befriend  and  feed  him,  the  faces 
that  claim  his  kisses,  are  all  in  turn  absorbing ;  yet 
warm,  cheerful,  and  with  good  appetite  the  little 
sovereign  subdues  them  without  knowing  it ;  the 
new  knowledge  is  taken  up  into  the  life  of  to-day 
and  becomes  the  means  of  more.  The  blowing 
rose  is  a  new  event ;  the  garden  full  of  flowers  is 
Eden  over  again  to  the  small  Adam ;  the  rain,  the 
ice,  the  frost,  make  epochs  in  his  life.  What  a 
holiday  is  the  first  snow  in  which  Twoshoes  can  be 
trusted  abroad ! 

What  art  can  paint  or  gild  any  object  in  after 
life  with  the  glow  which  Nature  gives  to  the  first 
baubles  of  childhood  !  St.  Peter's  can  not  have  the 
magical,  power  over  us  that  the  red  and  gold  covers 
of  our  first  picture-book  possessed.  How  the  im 
agination  cleaves  to  the  warm  glories  of  that  tinsel 
even  now  !  What  entertainments  make  every  day 
bright  and  short  for  the  fine  freshman  !  The  street 


96  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

\ 

is  old  as  Nature  ;  the  persons  all  have  their  sacred- 
ness.  His  imaginative  life  dresses  all  tilings  in  their 
best.  His  fears  adorn  the  dark  parts  with  poetry. 
He  has  heard  of  wild  horses  and  of  bad  boys,  and 
with  a  pleasing  terror  he  watches  at  his  gate  for  the 
passing  of  those  varieties  of  each  species.  The  first 
ride  into  the  country,  the  first  bath  in  running  water, 
the  first  time  the  skates  are  put  on,  the  first  game 
out  of  doors  in  moonlight,  the  books  of  the  nursery, 
are  new  chapters  of  joy.  The  "  Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainments,"  the  "  Seven  Champions  of  Chris 
tendom,"  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  and  the  u  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  —  what  mines  of  thought  and  emotion, 
what  a  wardrobe  to  dress  the  whole  world  withal, 
are  in  this  encyclopedia  of  young  thinking !  And 
60  by  beautiful  traits,  which,  without  art,  yet  seem 
the  masterpiece  of  wisdom,  provoking  the  love  that 
watches  and  educates  him,  the  little  pilgrim  prose 
cutes  the  journey  through  nature  which  he  has 
thus  gayly  begun.  He  grows  up  the  ornament  and 
joy  of  the  house,  which  rings  to  his  glee,  to  rosy 
boyhood. 

The  household  is  the  home  of  the  man,  as  well 
as  of  the  child.  The  events  that  occur  therein  are 
more  near  and  affecting  to  us  than  those  which 
are  sought  in  senates  and  academies.  Domestic 
events  are  certainly  our  affair.  What  are  called 
public  events  may  or  may  not  be  ours.  If  a  man 
wishes  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  real  history  of 


DOMESTIC   LIFE.  97 

the  world,  with  the  spirit  of  the  age,  he  must  not 
go  first  to  the  state-house  or  the  court-room.  The 
subtle  spirit  of  life  must  te  sought  in  facts  nearer. 
It  is  what  is  done  and  suffered  in  the  house,  in  the 
constitution,  in  the  temperament,  in  the  personal  his 
tory,  that  has  the  profoundest  interest  for  us.  Fact 
is  better  than  fiction,  if  only  we  could  get  pure  fact. 
Do  you  think  any  rhetoric  or  any  romance  would 
get  your  ear  from  the  wise  gypsy  who  could  tell 
straight  on  the  real  fortunes  of  the  man  ;  who  could 
reconcile  your  moral  character  and  your  natural  his 
tory  ;  who  could  explain  your  misfortunes,  your  fe 
vers,  your  debts,  your  temperament,  your  habits  of 
thought,  your  tastes,  and,  in  every  explanation,  not 
sever  you  from  the  whole,  but  unite  you  to  it  ?  Is 
it  not  plain  that  not  in  senates,  or  courts,  or  cham 
bers  of  commerce,  but  in  the  dwelling-house  must 
the  true  character  and  hope  of  the  time  be  consulted  ? 
These  facts  are,  to  be  sure,  harder  to  read.  It  is 
easier  to  count  the  census,  or  compute  the  square 
extent  of  a  territory,  to  criticise  its  polity,  books,  art, 
than  to  come  to  the  persons  and  dwellings  of  men, 
and  read  their  character  and  hope  in  their  way  of 
life.  Yet  we  are  always  hovering  round  this  better 
divination.  In  one  form  or  another,  we  are  always 
returning  to  it.  The  physiognomy  and  phrenol 
ogy  of  to-day  are  rash  and  mechanical  systems 
enough,  but  they  rest  on  everlasting  foundations. 
"We  are  sure  that  the  sacred  form  of  man  is  not  seen 


98  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

in  these  whimsical,  pitiful,  and  sinister  masks  (masks 
which  we  wear  and  which  we  meet),  these  bloated 
and  shrivelled  bodies,  bald  heads,  bead  eyes,  short 
winds,  puny  and  precarious  healths,  and  early 
deaths.  We  live  ruins  amidst  ruins.  The  great 
facts  are  the  near  ones.  The  account  of  the  body 
is  to  be  sought  in  the  mind.  The  history  of  your 
fortunes  is  written  first  in  your  life. 

Let  us  come,  then,  out  of  the  public  square,  and 
enter  the  domestic  precinct.  Let  us  go  to  the  sit 
ting-room,  the  table-talk,  and  the  expenditure  of  our 
contemporaries.  An  increased  consciousness  of  the 
soul,  you  say,  characterizes  the  period.  Let  us  see 
if  it  has  not  only  arranged  the  atoms  at  the  circum 
ference,  but  the  atoms  at  the  core.  Does  the  house 
hold  obey  an  idea  ?  Do  you  see  the  man,  —  his 
form,  genius,  and  aspiration, —  in  his  economy  ?  .  Is 
that  translucent,  thorough-lighted  ?  There  should 
be  nothing  confounding  and  conventional  in  econ 
omy,  but  the  genius  and  love  of  the  man  so  conspic 
uously  marked  in  all  his  estate,  that  the  eye  that 
knew  him  should  read  his  character  in  his  property, 
in  his  grounds,  in  his  ornaments,  in  every  expense. 
A  man's  money  should  not  follow  the  direction  of 
his  neighbor's  money,  but  should  represent  to  him 
the  things  he  would  willingliest  do  with  it.  I  am 
not  one  thing  and  my  expenditure  another.  My 
expenditure  is  me.  That  our  expenditure  and  our 
character  are  twain,  is  the  vice  of  society. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  99 

We  ask  the  price  of  many  things  in  shops  and 
stalls,  but  some  things  each  man  buys  without  hes 
itation,  if  it  were  only  letters  at  the  post-office,  con 
veyance  in  carriages  and  boats,  tools  for  his  work, 
books  that  are  written  to  his  condition,  etc.  Let  him 
never  buy  anything  else  than  what  he  wants,  never 
subscribe  at  others'  instance,  neyer  give  unwillingly. 
Thus,  a  scholar  is  a  literary  foundation.  All  his 
expense  is  for  Aristotle,  Fabricius,  Erasmus,  and  Pe 
trarch.  Do  not  ask  him  to  help  with  his  savings 
young  drapers  or  grocers  to  stock  their  shops,  or 
eager  agents  to  lobby  in  legislatures,  or  join  a  com 
pany  to  build  a  factory  or  a  fishing-craft.  These 
things  are  also  to  be  done,  but  not  by  such  as  he. 
How  could  such  a  book  as  Plato's  Dialogues  have 

O 

come  down,  but  for  the  sacred  savings  of  scholars 
and  their  fantastic  appropriation  of  them  ? 

Another  man  is  a  mechanical  genius,  an  inventor 
of  looms,  a  builder  of  ships,  —  a  ship-building  foun 
dation,  and  could  achieve  nothing  if  he  should  dissi 
pate  himself  on  books  or  on  horses.  Another  is  a 
farmer,  — *an  agricultural  foundation  ;  another  is  a 
chemist,  —  and  the  same  rule  holds  for  all.  We 
must  not  make  Relieve  with  our  money,  but  spend 
heartily,  and  buy  up  and  hot  dotvn. 

I  am  afraid  that,  so  considered,  our  houses  will 
not  be  found  to  have  unity,  and  to  express  the  best 
thought.  The  household,  the  calling,  the  friend 
ships,  of  the  citizen  are  not  homogeneous.  His 


100  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

house  ought  to  show  us  his  honest  opinion  of  what 
makes  his  well-being  when  he  rests  among  his  kin 
dred,  and  forgets  all  affectation,  compliance,  and 
even  exertion  of  will.  He  brings  home  whatever 
commodities  and  ornaments  have  for  years  allured 
his  pursuit,  and  his  character  must  be  seen  in  them. 
But  what  idea  predominates  in  our  houses  ?  Thrift 
first,  then  convenience  and  pleasure.  Take  off  all 
the  roofs,  from  street  To  street,  and  we  shall  seldom 
find  the  temple  of  any  higher  god  than  Prudence. 
The  progress  of  domestic  living  has  been  in  clean 
liness,  in  ventilation,  in  health,  in  decorum,  in  count 
less  means  and  arts  of  comfort,  in  the  concentration 
of  all  the  utilities  of  every  clime  in  each  house. 
They  are  arranged  for  low  benefits.  The  houses 
of  the  rich  are  confectioners'  shops,  where  we  get 
sweetmeats  and  wine ;  the  houses  of  the  poor  are 
imitations  of  these  to  the  extent  of  their  ability. 
With  these  ends  housekeeping  is  not  beautiful ;  it 
cheers  and  raises  neither  the  husband,  the  wife,  nor 
the  child;  neither  the  host,  nor  the  guest;  it  op 
presses  women.  A  house  kept  to  the  end  of  pru 
dence  is  laborious  without  joy ;  a  house  kept  to  the 
end  of  display  is  impossible  to  all  but  a  few  women, 
and  their  success  is  dearly  bought. 

If  we  look  at  this  matter  curiously,  it  becomes 
dangerous.  We  need  all  the  force  of  an  idea  to  lift 
this  load,  for  the  wealth  and  multiplication  of  con 
veniences  ?moarrass  us,  especially  in  northern  cli- 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  101 

mates.  The  shortest  enumeration  of  our  wants  in 
this  rugged  climate  appalls  us  by  the  multitude  of 
things  not  easy  to  be  done.  And  if  you  look  at 
the  multitude  of  particulars,  one  would  say:  Good 
housekeeping  is  impossible ;  order  is  too  precious  a 
thing  to  dwell  with  men  and  women.  See,  in  fami 
lies  where  there  is  both  substance  and  taste,  at  what 
expense  any  favorite  punctuality  is  maintained.  If 
the  children,  for  example,  are  considered,  dressed, 
dieted,  attended,  kept  in  proper  company,  schooled, 
and  at  home  fostered  by  the  parents,  —  then  does 
the  hospitality  of  the  house  suffer ;  friends  are  less 
carefully  bestowed,  the  daily  table  less  catered.  If 
the  hours  of  meals  are  punctual,  the  apartments  are 
slovenly.  If  the  linens  and  hangings  are  clean  and 
fine,  and  the  furniture  good,  the  yard,  the  gar 
den,  the  fences  are  neglected.  If  all  are  well  at 
tended,  then  must  the  master  and  mistress  be 
studious  of  particulars  at  the  cost  of  their  own 
accomplishments  and  growth,  —  or  persons  are 
treated  as  things. 

O 

The  difficulties  to  be  overcome  must  be  freely 
admitted ;  they  are  many  and  great.  Nor  are  they 
to  be  disposed  of  by  any  criticism  or  amendment  of 
particulars  taken  one  at  a  time,  but  only  by  the 
arrangement  of  the  household  to  a  higher  end  than 

o  o 

those  to  which  our  dwellings  are  usually  built  and 
furnished.  And  is  there  any  calamity  more  grave, 
or  that  more  invokes  the  best  good-will  to  rernovo 


102  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

it,  than  this  ?  —  to  go  from  chamber  to  chamber,  and 
see  no  beauty ;  to  find  in  the  housemates  no  aim ; 
to  hear  an  endless  chatter  and  blast;  to  be  com 
pelled  to  criticise ;  to  hear  only  to  dissent  and  to  be 
disgusted ;  to  find  no  invitation  to  what  is  good  in 
us,  and  no  receptacle  for  what  is  wise  ;  —  this  is  a 
great  price  to  pay  for  sweet  bread  and  warm  lodg 
ing,  —  being  defrauded  of  affinity,  of  repose,  of 
genial  culture,  and  the  inmost  presence  of  beauty. 
It  is  a  sufficient  accusation  of  our  ways  of  living, 
and  certainly  ought  to  open  our  ear  to  every  good- 
minded  reformer,  that  our  idea  of  domestic  well- 
being  now  needs  wealth  to  execute  it.  Give  me  the 
means,  says  the  wife,  and  your  house  shall  not  annoy 
your  taste  nor  waste  your  time.  On  hearing  this, 
we  understand  how  these  Means  have  come  to  be 
so  omnipotent  on  earth.  And  indeed  the  love  of 
wealth  seems  to  grow  chiefly  out  of  the  root  of  the 
love  of  the  Beautiful.  The  desire  of  gold  is  not  for 
gold.  It  is  not  the  love  of  much  wheat  and  wool 
and  household-stuff.  It  is  the  means  of  freedom 
and  benefit.  We  scorn  shifts ;  we  desire  the  e]e- 
gance  of  munificence  ;  we  desire  at  least  to  put  no 
stint  or  limit  on  our  parents,  relatives,  guests,  or  de 
pendents  ;  we  desire  to  play  the  benefactor  and  the 
prince  with  our  townsmen,  with  the  stranger  at  tho 
gate,  with  the  bard,  or  the  beauty,  with  the  man  or 
woman  of  worth,  who  alights  at  our  door.  How 
can  we  do  this,  if  the  wants  of  each  day  imprison 


DOMESTIC   LIFE.  103 

us  in  lucrative  labors,  and  constrain  us  to  a  contin 
ual  vigilance  lest  we  be  betrayed  into  expense  ? 

Give  us  wealth,  and  the  home  shall  exist.  But 
that  is  a  very  imperfect  and  inglorious  solution  of 
the  problem,  and  therefore  no  solution.  "  Grive  us 
wealth."  You  ask  too  much.  Few  have  wealth ; 
but  all  must  have  a  home.  Men  are  not  born 
rich ;  and  in  getting  wealth,  the  man  is  gener 
ally  sacrificed,  and  often  is  sacrificed  without  acquir 
ing  wealth*  at  last.  Besides,  that  cannot  be  the 
right  answer ;  —  there  are  objections  to  wealth. 
Wealth  is  a  shift.  The  wise  man  angles  with  him 
self  only,  and  with  no  meaner  bait.  Our  whole  use 
of  wealth  needs  revision  and  reform.  Generosity 
does  not  consist  in  giving  money  or  money's  worth. 
These  so-called  goods  are  only  the  shadow  of  good. 
To  give  money  to  a  sufferer  is  only  a  come-off.  It 
is  only  a  postponement  of  the  real  payment,  a  bribe 
paid  for  silence,  —  a  credit-system  in  which  a  paper 
promise  to  pay  answers  for  the  time  instead  of  liqui 
dation.  We  owe  to  man  higher  succors  than  food 
and  fire.  We  owe  to  man  man.  If  he  is  sick,  is 
unable,  is  mean-spirited  and  odious,  it  is  because 
there  is  so  much  of  his  nature  which  is  unlawfully 
witliholden  from  him.  He  should  be  visited  in  this 
his  prison  with  rebuke  to  the  evil  demons,  with 
manly  encouragement,  with  no  mean-spirited  offer 
of  condolence  because  you  have  not  money,  or  mean 
offer  of  money  as  the  utmost  benefit,  but  by  your 


104  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

heroism,  your  purity,  and  your  faith.  You  are  to 
bring  with  you  that  spirit  which  is  understanding, 
health  and  self-help.  To  offer  him  money  ip  lieu 
of  these  is  to  do  him  the  same  wrong  as  when  the 
bridegroom  offers  his  betrothed  virgin  a  sum  of 
money  to  release  him  from  his  engagements.  Tlio 
great  depend  on  their  heart,  not  on  their  purse. 
Genius  and  virtue,  like  diamonds,  are  best  plain-set, 
—  set  in  lead,  set  in  poverty.  The  greatest  man  in 
history  was  the  poorest.  How  was  it  with  the  cap 
tains  and  sages  of  Greece  and  Rome,  with  Socrates, 
with  Epaminondas?  Aristides  was  made  general 
receiver  of  Greece,  to  collect  the  tribute  which  each 
state  was  to  furnish  against  the  barbarian.  "  Poor," 
says  Plutarch,  "  when  he  set  about  it,  poorer  when 
he  had  finished  it."  How  was  it  with  ^Emjlius  and 
Cato  ?  What  kind  of  house  was  kept  by  Paul 
and  John,  —  by  Milton  and  Marvell,  —  by  Samuel 
Johnson,  —  by  Samuel  Adams  in  Boston,  and  Jean 
Paul  Richter  at  Baireuth  ? 

I  think  it  plain  that  this  voice  of  communities 
and  ages,  '  Give  us  wealth,  and  the  good  household 
shall  exist, '  is  vicious,  and  leaves  the  whole  diffi 
culty  untouched.  It  is  better,  certainly,  in  this 
form,  '  Give  us  your  labor,  and  the  household 
begins.'  I  see  not  how  serious  labor,  the  labor  of 
all  and  every  day,  is  to  be  avoided  ;  and  many  things 
betoken  a  revolution  of  opinion  and  practice  in 
regard  to  manual  labor  that  may  go  far  to  aid  our 


DOMESTIC   LIFE.  105 

practical  inquiry.  Another  age  may  divide  the 
manual  labor  of  the  world  more  equally  on  all  the 
members  of  society,  and  so  make  the  labors  of  a  few- 
hours  avail  to  the  wants  and  add  to  the  vigor  of  the 
man.  But  the  reform  that  applies  itself  to  the  house 
hold  must  not  be  partial.  It  must  correct  the  whole 
system  of  our  social  living.  It  must  come  with 
plain  living  and  high  thinking ;  it  must  break  up 
caste,  and  put  domestic  service  on  another  founda 
tion.  It  must  come  in  connection  with  a  true  ac 
ceptance  by  each  man  of  his  vocation,  —  not  chosen 
by  his  parents  or  friends,  but  by  his  genius,  with 
earnestness  and  love. 

Nor  is  this  redress  so  hopeless  as  it  seems.  Cer 
tainly,  if  we  begin  by  reforming  particulars  of  our 
present  system,  correcting  a  few  evils  and  letting 
the  rest  stand,  we  shall  soon  give  up  in  despair. 
For  our  social  forms  are  very  far  from  truth  and 
equity.  But  the  way  to  set  the  axe  at  the  root  of 
the  tree  is,  to  raise  our  aim.  Let  us  understand, 
then,  that  a  house  should  bear  witness  in  all  its 
economy  that  human  culture  is  the  end  to  which  il 
is  built  and  garnished.  It  stands  there  under  the 
sun  and  moon  to  ends  analogous,  and  not  less  noble 
than  theirs.  It  is  not  for  festivity,  it  is  not  for  sleep  : 
but  the  pine  and  the  oak  shall  gladly  descend  from 
the  mountains  to  uphold  the  roof  of  men  as  faithful 
and  necessary  as  themselves ;  to  be  the  shelter  al 
ways  open  to  good  arid  true  persons  ;  —  a  hall  which 


103  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

shines  with  sincerity,  brows  ever  tranquil,  and  a 
demeanor  impossible  to  disconcert ;  whose  inmates 
know  what  they  want ;  who  do  not  ask  your  house 
how  theirs  should  be  kept.  They  have  aims :  they 
cannot  pause  for  trifles.  The  diet  of  the  house  does 
not  create  its  order,  but  knowledge,  character,  action, 
absorb  so  much  life  and  yield  so  much  entertainment 
that  the  refectory  has  ceased  to  be  so  curiously 
studied.  With  a  change  of  aim  has  followed  a  change 
of  the  wrhole  scale  by  which  men  and  things  were 
wont  to  be  measured.  Wealth  and  poverty  are  seen 
for  what  they  are.  It  begins  to  be  seen  that  the 
poor  are  only  they  who  feel  poor,  and  poverty  con 
sists  in  feeling  poor.  The  rich,  as  we  reckon  them, 
and  among  them  the  very  rich,  in  a  true  scale  would 
be  found  very  indigent  and  ragged.  The  great 
make  us  feel,  first  of  all,  the  indifference  of  circum 
stances.  They  call  into  activity  the  higher  percep 
tions,  and  subdue  the  low  habits  of  comfort  and 
luxury  ;  but  the  higher  perceptions  find  their  objects 
everywhere :  only  the  low  habits  need  palaces  and 
banquets. 

Let  a  man,  then,  say,  My  house  is  here  in  the 
county,  for  the  culture  of  the  county;  —  an  eating- 
nouse  and  sleeping- house  for  travellers  it  shall  be, 
but  it  shall  be  much  more.  I  pray  you,  0  excel 
lent  wife,  not  to  cumber  yourself  and  me  to  get  a 
rich  dinner  for  this  man  or  this  woman  who  ha3 
alighted  at  our  gate,  nor  a  bedchamber  made  ready 


DOMESTIC   LIFE.  107 

at  too  great  a  cost.  These  things,  if  they  are  curi 
ous  in,  they  can  get  for  a  dollar  at  any  village.  But 
let  this  stranger,  if  he  will,  in  your  looks,  in  your 
.accent  and  behavior,  read  your  heart  and  earnestness, 
your  thought  and  will,  which  he  cannot  buy  at  any 
price,  in  any  village  or  city,  and  which  he  may  well 
travel  fifty  miles,  and  dine  sparely  and  sleep  hard,  in 
order  to  behold.  Certainly,  let  the  board  be  spread 
and  let  the  bed  be  dressed  for  the  traveller ;  but  let 
not  the  emphasis  of  hospitality  lie  in  these  things. 
Honor  to  the  house  where  they  are  simple  to  the 
verge  of  hardship,  so  that  there  the  intellect  is  awake 
and  reads  the  laws  of  the  universe,  the  soul  worships 
truth  and  love,  honor  and  courtesy  flow  into  all 
deeds. 

There  was  never  a  country  in  the  world  which 
could  so  easily  exhibit  this  heroism  as  ours  ;  never 
any  where  the  State  has  made  such  efficient  provis 
ion  for  popular  education,  where  intellectual  enter 
tainment  is  so  within  reach  of  youthful  ambition. 
The  poor  man's  son  is  educated.  There  is  many  a 
humble  house  in  every  city,  in  every  town,  where 
talent  and  taste,  and  sometimes  genius,  dwell  with 
poverty  and  labor.  Who  has  not  seen,  and  who  can 
see  unmoved,  under  a  low  roof,  the  eager,  blushing 
boys  discharging  as  they  can  their  household  chores, 
and  hastening  into  the  sitting-room  to  the  study  of 
to-morrow's  merciless  lesson,  yet  stealing  time  to 
read  one  chapter  more  of  the  novel  hardly  smuggled 


108  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

into  the  tolerance  of  father  and  mother,  —  atoning 
for  the  same  by  some  pages  of  Plutarch  or  Gold 
smith  ;  the  warm  sympathy  with  which  they  kindle 
each  other  in  school-yard,  or  in  barn  or  wood-shed, 
with  scraps  of  poetry  or  song,  with  phrases  of  the 
last  oration,  or  mimicry  of  the  orator  ;  the  youthful 
criticism,  on  Sunday,  of  the  sermons ;  the  school 
declamation  faithfully  rehearsed  at  home,  sometimes 
to  the  fatigue,  sometimes  to  the  admiration  of  sisters ; 
the  first  solitary  joys  of  literary  vanity,  when  the 
translation  or  the  theme  has  been  completed,  sitting 
alone  near  the  top  of  the  house  ;  the  cautious  com 
parison  of  the  attractive  advertisement  of  the  arrival 
of  Macready,  Booth,  or  Kemble,  or  of  the  discourse 
of  a  well-known  speaker,  with  the  expense  of  the 
entertainment ;  the  affectionate  delight  with  which 
they  greet  the  return  of  each  one  after  the  early 
separations  which  school  or  business  require  ;  the 
foresight  with  which,  during  such  absences,  they 
hive  the  honey  which  opportunity  offers,  for  the  ear 
and  imagination  of  the  others ;  and  the  unrestrained 
glee  with  which  they  disburden  themselves  of  their 
early  mental  treasures  when  the  holidays  bring  them 
again  together  ?  What  is  the  hoop  that  holds  them 
stanch  ?  It  is  the  iron  band  of  poverty,  of  necessity, 
of  austerity,  which,  excluding  them  from  the  sensu 
al  enjoyments  which  make  other  boys  too  early  old, 
has  directed  their  activity  in  safe  and  right  channels, 
and  made  them,  despite  themselves,  reverers  of  the 


DOMESTIC   LIFE.  109 

grand,  the  beautiful,  and  the  good.  Ah !  short-sighted 
students  of  books,  of  Nature,  and  of  man  !  too  happy, 
could  they  know  their  advantages.  They  pine  for 
freedom  from  that  mild  parental  yoke ;  they  sigh  for 
fine  clothes,  for  rides,  for  the  theatre,  and  premature 
freedom  and  dissipation,  which  others  possess.  Woe 
to  them,  if  their  wishes  were  crowned  !  The  angels 
that  dwell  with  them,  and  are  weaving  laurels  of 
life  for  their  youthful  brows,  are  Toil,  and  Want, 
and  Truth,  and  Mutual  Faith. 

In  many  parts  of  true  economy  a  cheering  lesson 
may  be  learned  from  the  mode  of  life  and  manners 
of  the  later  Romans,  as  described  to  us  in  the  letters 
of  the  younger  Pliny.  Nor  can  I  resist  the  temp 
tation  of  quoting  so  trite  an  instance  as  the  noble 
housekeeping  of  Lord  Falkland  in  Clarendon  :  "  His 
house  being  within  little  more  than  ten  miles  from 
Oxford,  he  contracted  familiarity  and  friendship 
with  the  most  polite  and  accurate  men  of  that  Uni 
versity,  who  found  such  an  immenseness  of  wit,  and 
such  a  solidity  of  judgment  in  him,  so  infinite  a 
fancy,  bound  in  by  a  most  logical  ratiocination,  such 
a  vast  knowledge  that  he  was  not  ignorant  in  any 
thing,  yet  such  an  excessive  humility,  as  if  he  had 
known  nothing,  that  they  frequently  resorted  and 
dwelt  with  him,  as  in  a  college  situated  in  a  purer 
air ;  so  that  his  house  was  a  university  in  a  less  vol 
ume,  whither  they  came,  not  so  much  for  repose 
as  study,  and  to  examine  and  refine  those  grosser 


110  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

propositions  which  laziness  and  consent  made  cur 
rent  in  vulgar  conversation." 

I  honor  that  man  whose  ambition  it  is,  not  to  win 
laurels  in  the  state  or  the  army,  not  to  be  a  jurist  or 
a  naturalist,  not  to  be  a  poet  or  a  commander,  but  to 
be  a  master  of  living  well,  and  to  administer  the  of 
fices  of  master  or  servant,  of  husband,  father,  and 
friend.  But  it  requires  as  much  breadth  of  power 
for  this  as  for  those  other  functions, — as  much,  or 
more,  —  and  the  reason  for  the  failure  is  the  same. 
I  think  the  vice  of  our  housekeeping  is,  that  it  does 
not  hold  man  sacred.  The  vice  of  government,  the 
vice  of  education,  the  vice  of  religion,  is  one  with 
that  of  private  life. 

In  the  old  fables,  we  used  to  read  of  a  cloak 
brought  from  fairy-land  as  a  gift  for  the  fairest  and 
purest  in  Prince  Arthur's  court.  It  was  to  be  her 
prize  whom  it  would  fit.  Every  one  was  eager  to 
try  it  on,  but  it  would  fit  nobody :  for  one  it  was  a 
world  too  wide,  for  the  next  it  dragged  on  the 
ground,  and  for  the  third  it  shrunk  to  a  scarf. 
They,  of  course,  said  that  the  devil  was  in  the  man 
tle,  for  really  the  truth  was  in  the  mantle,  and  was 
exposing  the  ugliness  which  each  would  fain  con 
ceal.  All  drew  back  with  terror  from  the  garment. 
The  innocent  Genelas  alone  could  wear  it.  In  like 
manner,  every  man  is  provided  in  his  thought  with 
a  measure  of  man  which  he  applies  to  every  passen 
ger.  Unhappily,  not  one  in  many  thousands  comes 


DOMESTIC   LIFE.  Ill 

np  to  the  stature  and  proportions  of  the  model. 
Neither  does  the  measurer  himself,  neither  do  the 
people  in  the  street ;  neither,  do  the  select  individ 
uals  whom  he  admires, —  the  heroes  of  the  race. 
When  he  inspects  them  critically,  he  discovers  that 
their  aims  are  low,  that  they  are  too  quickly  satis 
fied.  He  observes  the  swiftness  with  which  life  cul 
minates,  and  the  humility  of  the  expectations  of  the 
greatest  part  of  men.  To  each  occurs,  soon  after 
the  age  of  puberty,  some  event,  or  society,  or  way 
of  living,  which  becomes  the  crisis  of  life,  and  the 
chief  fact  in  their  history.  In  woman,  it  is  love  and 
marriage  (which  is  more  reasonable)  ;  and  yet  it  is 
pitiful  to  date  and  measure  all  the  facts  and  sequel 
of  an  unfolding  life  from  such  a  youthful,  and  gen 
erally  inconsiderate,  period  as  the  age  of  courtship 
and  marriage.  In  men,  it  is  their  place  of  educa 
tion,  choice  of  an  employment,  settlement  in  a  town, 
or  removal  to  the  East  or  to  the  West,  or  some 
other  magnified  trifle,  which  makes  the  meridian 
moment,  and  all  the  after  years  and  actions  only  de 
rive  interest  from  their  relation  to  that.  Hence  it 
icomes  that  we  soon  catch  the  trick  of  each  man's 
conversation,  and,  knowing  his  two  or  three  main 
facts,  anticipate  what  he  thinks  of  each  new  topic 
that  rises.  It  is  scarcely  less  perceivable  in  educat 
ed  men,  so  called,  than  in  the  uneducated.  I  have 
seen  finely  endowed  men  at  college  festivals,  ten, 
twenty  years  after  they  had  left  the  halls,  return- 


112  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

ing,  as  it  seemed,  the  same  boys  who  went  away. 
The  same  jokes  pleased,  the  same  straws  tickled; 
the  manhood  and  offices  they  brought  thither  at 
this  return  seemed  mere  ornamental  masks :  un 
derneath  they  were  boys  yet.  We  never  come  to 
be  citizens  of  the  world,  but  are  still  villagers,  who 
think  that  every  thing  in  their  petty  town  is  a  little 
superior  to  the  same  thing  anywhere  else.  In  each 
the  circumstance  signalized  differs,  but  in  each  it  is 
made  the  coals  of  an  ever-burning  egotism.  In  one, 
it  was  his  going  to  sea  ;  in  a  second,  the  difficulties 
he  combated  in  going  to  college  ;  in  a  third,  his 
journey  to  the  West,  or  his  voyage  to  Canton  ;  in 
a  fourth,  his  coming  out  of  the  Quaker  Society  ;  in 
a  fifth,  his  new  diet  and  regimen  ;  in  a  sixth,  his 
coming  forth  from  the  abolition  organizations ;  and 
in  a  seventh,  his  going  into  them.  It  is  a  life  of 
toys  and  trinkets.  We  are  too  easily  pleased. 

I  think  this  sad  result  appears  in  the  manners. 
The  men  we  see  in  each  other  do  not  give  us  the 
ima^e  and  likeness  of  man.  The  men  we  see  are 

O 

whipped  through  the  world ;  they  are  harried, 
wrinkled,  anxious  ;  they  all  seem  the  hacks  of  some 
invisible  riders.  How  seldom  do  we  behold  tran 
quillity  !  We  have  never  yet  seen  a  man.  We  do 
not  know  the  majestic  manners  that  belong  to  him, 
which  appease  and  exalt  the  beholder.  There  are 
no  divine  persons  with  us,  and  the  multitude  do  not 
hasten  to  be  divine.  And  yet  we  hold  fast,  ^11 


DOMESTIC   LIFE.  113 

our  lives  long,  a  faith  in  a  better  life,  in  better  men, 
in  clean  and  noble' relations,  notwithstanding  our 
total  inexperience  of  a  true  society.  Certainly,  this 
was  not  the  intention  of  nature,  to  produce,  with 
all  this  immense  expenditure  of  means  and  power, 
so  cheap  and  humble  a  result.  The  aspirations  in 
the  heart  after  the  good  and  true  teach  us  better,  — • 
nay,  the  men  themselves  suggest  a  better  life. 

Every  individual  nature  has  its  o'wn  beauty.  One 
is  struck  in  every  company,  at  every  fireside,  with 
the  riches  of  nature,  when  he  hears  so  many  new 
tones,  all  musical,  sees  in  each  person  original  man 
ners,  which  have  a  proper  and  peculiar  charm,  and 
reads  new  expressions  of  face.  He  perceives  that 
nature  has  laid  for  each  the  foundations  of  a  divine 
building,  if  the  soul  will  build  thereon.  There  is  no 
face,  no  form,  which  one  cannot  in  fancy  associate 
with  great  power  of  intellect  or  with  generosity  of 
soul.  In  our  experience,  to  be  sure,  beauty  is  not, 
as  it  ought  to  be,  the  dower  of  man  and  of  woman 
as  invariably  as  sensation.  Beauty  is,  even  in  the 
beautiful,  occasional,  —  or,  as  one  has  said,  culmi 
nating  and  perfect  only  a  single  moment,  before 
which  it  is  unripe,  and  after  which  it  is  on  the  wane. 
But  beauty  is  never  quite  absent  from  our  eyes. 
Every  face,  every  figure,  suggests  its  own  right  and 
sound  estate.  Our  friends  are  not  their  own  highest 

O 

form.  But  let  the  hearts  they  have  agitated  witness 
what  power  has  lurked  in  the  traits  of  these  struc- 


114  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

tures  of  clay  that  pass  and  repass  us !  The  secret 
power  of  form  over  the  imagination  and  affections 
transcends  all  our  philosophy.  The  first  glance  we 

•  meet  may  satisfy  us  that  matter  is  the  vehicle  of 
higher  powers  than  its  own,  and  that  no  laws  of  line 
or  surface  can  ever  account  for  the  inexhaustible 
expressiveness  of  form.  We  see  heads  that  turn  on 
the  pivot  of  the  spine,  —  no  more ;  and  we  see 
heads  that  seem  to  turn  on  a  pivot  as  deep  as  the 
axle  of  the  world,  —  so  slow,  and  lazily,  and  great, 
they  move.  We  see  on  the  lip  of  our  companion  the 
presence  or  absence  of  the  great  masters  of  thought 
and  poetry  to  his  mind.  We  read  in  his  brow,  on 
meeting  him  after  many  years,  that  he  is  where  wo 
left  him,  or  that  he  has  made  great  strides. 

Whilst  thus  nature  and  the  hints  we  draw  from 
man  suggest  a  true  and  lofty  life,  a  household  equal 
to  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  this  world,  especial 
ly  we  learn  the  same  lesson  from  those  best  relations 
to  individual  men  which  the  heart  is  always  prompt 
ing  us  to  form. ")  Happy  will  that  house  be  in  which 
the  relations  are  formed  from  character,  after  the 

>  highest,  and  not  after  the  lowest  order ;  the  house 
in  which  character  marries,  and  not  confusion  and 
a  miscellany  of  unavowable  motives.  Then  shall 
marriage  be  a  covenant  to  secure  to  either  party  the 
sweetness  and  honor  of  being  a  calm,  continuing, 
inevitable  benefactor  to  the  other.  Yes,  and  the 
sufficient  reply  to  the  sceptic  who  doubts  the  com- 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  115 

petence  of  man  to  elevate  and  to  be  elevated  is  in 
that  desire  and  power  to  stand  in  joyful  and  enno 
bling  intercourse  with  individuals,  which  makes  the 
faith  and  the  practice  of  all  reasonable  men. 

The  ornament  of  a  house  is  the  friends  who  fre- 
qnent  it.  There  is  no  event  greater  in  life  than  the 
appearance  of  new  persons  about  our  hearth,  except 
it  be  the  progress  of  the  character  which  draws  them. 
It  has  been  finely  added  by  Landor  to  his  definition 
of  the  great  man,  "  It  is  he  who  can  call  together 
the  most  select  company  when  it  pleases  him."  A 
verse  of  the  old  Greek  Menander  remains,  which 
runs  in  translation  :  — 

"  Not  on  the  store  of  sprightly  wine, 

Nor  plenty  of  delicious  meats, 
Though  generous  Nature  did  design 

To  court  us  with  perpetual  treats,  — 
*T  is  not  on  these  we  for  content  depend, 
So  much  as  on  the  shadow  of  a  Friend." 

It  is  the  happiness  which,  where  it  is  truly  known, 
postpones  all  other  satisfactions,  and  makes  politics 
and  commerce  and  churches  cheap.  For  we  figure 
to  ourselves,  —  do  we  not  ?  —  that  when  men  shall 
meet  as  they  should,  as  states  meet,  —  each  a  bene 
factor,  a  shower  of  falling  stars,  so  rich  with  deeds, 
with  thoughts,  with  so  much  accomplishment,  —  it 
shall  be  the  festival  of  nature,  which  all  things  sym 
bolize  ;  and  perhaps  Love  is  only  the  highest  symbol 
of  Friendship,  as  all  other  things  seem  symbols  of 


116  DOMESTIC   LIFE. 

love.  In  the  progress  of  each  man's  charactei,  his 
relations  to  the  best  men,  which  at  first  seem  only 
the  romances  of  youth,  acquire  a  graver  importance  ; 
and  he  will  have  learned  the  lesson  of  life  who  is 
skilful  in  the  ethics  of  friendship. 

Beyond  its  primary  ends  of  the  conjugal,  parental, 
and  amicable  relations,  the  household  should  cherish 
the  beautiful  arts  and  the  sentiment  of  veneration. 

1.  Whatever  brings  the  dweller  into  a  finer  life, 
what  educates  his  eye,  or  ear,  or  hand,  whatever 
purifies  and  enlarges  him,  may  well  find  place  there. 
And  yet  let  him  not  think  that  a  property  in  beauti 
ful  objects  is  necessary  to  his  apprehension  of  them, 
and  seek  to  turn  his  house  into  a  museum.  Rather 
let  the  noble  practice  of  the  Greeks  find  place  in 
our  society,  and  let  the  creations  of  the  plastic  arts 
be  collected  with  care  in  galleries  by  the  piety  and 
taste  of  the  people,  and  yielded  as  freely  as  the  sun 
light  to  all.  Meantime,  be  it  remembered,  we  are 
artists  ourselves,  and  competitors,  each  one,  with 
Phidias  and  Raphael  in  the  production  of  what  is 
graceful  or  grand.  The  fountain  of  beauty  is  the 
heart,  and  every  generous  thought  illustrates  the 
walls  of  your  chamber.  Why  should  we  owe  our 
power  of  attracting  our  friends  to  pictures  and 
vases,  to  cameos  and  architecture  ?  Why  should 
we  convert  ourselves  into  showmen  and  append 
ages  to  our  fine  houses  and  our  works  of  art  ? 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  117 

If  by  love  and  nobleness  we  take  up  into  our 
selves  the  beauty  we  admire,  we  shall  spend  it 
again  on  all  around  us.  The  man,  the  woman, 
needs  not  the  embellishment  of  canvas  and  marble, 
whose  every  act  is  a  subject  for  the  sculptor,  and 
to  whose  eye  the  gods  and  nymphs  never  appear 
ancient ;  for  they  know  by  heart  the  whole  instinct 
of  majesty. 

I  do  not  undervalue  the  fine  instruction  which 
statues  and  pictures  give.  But  I  think  the  public 
museum  in  each  town  will  one  day  relieve  the 
private  house  of  this  charge  of  owning  and  exhibit 
ing  them.  I  go  to  Rome  and  see  on  the  walls  of  the 
Vatican  the  Transfiguration,  painted  by  Raphael, 
reckoned  the  first  picture  in  the  world ;  or  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel  I  see  the  grand  sibyls  and  prophets, 
painted  in  fresco  by  Michael  Angelo,  —  which  have 
every  day  now  for  three  hundred  years  inflamed  the 
imagination  and  exalted  the  piety  of  what  vast  mul 
titudes  of  men  of  all  nations !  I  wish  to  bring  home 
to  my  children  and  my  friends  copies  of  these  admi 
rable  forms,  which  I  can  find  in  the  shops  of  the  en 
gravers  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  the  vexation  of  owning 
them.  I  wish  to  find  in  my  own  town  a  library 
and  museum  which  is  the  property  of  the  town, 
where  I  can  deposit  this  precious  treasure,  where  1 
and  my  children  can  see  it  from  time  to  time,  and 
where  it  has  its  proper  place  among  hundreds  of 
such  donations  from  other  citizens  who  have  brought 


118  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

thither  whatever  articles  they  have  judged  to  be 
in  their  nature  rather  a  public  than  a  private  prop 
erty. 

A  collection  of  this  kind,  the  property  of  each 
town,  would  dignify  the  town,  and  we  should  love 
and  respect  our  neighbors  more.  Obviously,  it 
would  be  easy  for  every  town  to  discharge  this 
truly  municipal  duty.  Every  one  of  us  would 
gladly  contribute  his  share  ;  and  the  more  gladly, 
the  more  considerable  the  institution  had  become. 

2.  Certainly,  not  aloof  from  this  homage  to  beau- 
V  ty,  but  in  strict  connection  therewith,  the  house  will 
come  to  be  esteemed  a  Sanctuary.  The  language 
of  a  ruder  age  has  given  to  common  law  the  maxim 
that  every  man's  house  is  his  castle  :  the  progress  of 
truth  will  make  every  house  a  shrine.  Will  not 
man  one  day  open  his  eyes  and  see  how  dear  he  is 
to  the  soul  of  Nature,  —  how  near  it  is  to  him  ? 
Will  he  not  see,  through  all  he  miscalls  accident, 
that  Law  prevails  for  ever  and  ever  ;  that  his  private 
being  is  a  part  of  it ;  that  its  home  is  in  his  own  un 
sounded  heart ;  that  his  economy,  his  labor,  his  good 
and  bad  fortune,  his  health  and  manners,  are  all  a 
curious  and  exact  demonstration  in  miniature  of  the 
Genius  of  the  Eternal  Providence  ?  When  he  per 
ceives  the  Law,  he  ceases  to  despond,  Whilst  he 
sees  it,  every  thought  and  act  is  raised,  and  be 
comes  an  act  of  religion.  Does  the  consecration 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  119 

of  Sunday  confess  the  desecration  of  the  entire 
•week  ?  Does  the  consecration  of  the  church  con 
fess  the  profanation  of  the  house  ?  Let  us  read 
the  incantation  backward.  Let  the  man  stand  on 
his  feet.  Let  religion  cease  to  be  occasional ;  and 
the  pulses  of  thought  that  go  to  the  borders  of  the 
universe,  let  them  proceed  from  the  bosom  of  the 
Household. 

These  are  the  consolations,  —  these  are  the  ends 
to  which  the  household  is  instituted  and  the  rooftree 
stands.  If  these  are  sought,  and  in  any  good  degree 
attained,  can  the  State,  can  commerce,  can  climate, 
can  the  labor  of  many  for  one,  yield  anything  better, 
or  half  as  good  ?  Beside  these  aims,  Society  is  weak 
and  the  State  an  intrusion.  I  think  that  the  heroism 
which  at  this  day  would  make  on  us  the  impression 
of  Epaminondas  and  Phocion  must  be  that  of  a  do 
mestic  conqueror.  He  who  shall  bravely  and  grace 
fully  subdue  this  Gorgon  of  Convention  and  Fashion, 
and  show  men  how  to  lead  a  clean,  handsome,  and 
heroic  life  amid  the  beggarly  elements  of  our  cities 
and  villages ;  whoso  shall  teach  me  how  to  eat  my 
meat  and  take  my  repose,  and  deal  with  men,  with 
out  any  shame  following,  will  r^stc^e  the  life  of  man 
to  splendor,  and  make  his  own  name  dear  to  all  his 
tory. 


FAR  JUNG. 


J'  1  B  K  A  H  V 

| 

UNIVERSITY   OF 


FARMING. 

THE  glory  of  the  farmer  is  that,  in  the  division  of 
labors,  it  is  his  part  to  create.  All  trade  rests  at 
last  on  his  primitive  activity.  He  stands  close  to 
nature  ;  he  obtains  from  the  earth  the  bread  and  the 
meat.  The  food  which  was  not,  he  causes  to  be. 
The  first  farmer  was  the  first  man,  and  all  historic 
nobility  rests  on  possession  and  use  of  land.  Men 
do  not  like  hard  work,  but  every  man  has  an  ex 
ceptional  respect  for  tillage,  and  a  feeling  that  this 
is  the  original  calling  of  his  race,  that  he  himself  is 
only  excused  from  it  by  some  circumstance  which 
made  him  delegate  it  for  a  time  to  other  hands. 
If  he  have  not  some  skill  which  recommends  him  to 
the  farmer,  some  product  for  which  the  farmer  will 
give  him  corn,  he  must  himself  return  into  his  due 
place  among  the  planters.  And  the  profession  has 
in  all  eyes  its  ancient  charm,  as  standing  nearest 
to  God,  the  first  cause. 

Then  the  beauty  of  nature,  the  tranquillity  and 
innocence  of  the  countryman,  his  independence,  and 
his  pleasing  arts,  —  the  care  of  bees,  of  poultry,  of 
sheep,  of  cows,  the  dairy,  the  care  of  hay,  of  fruits, 


124  FARMING. 

of  orchards  and  forests,  and  the  reaction  of  these  on 
the  workman,  in  giving  him  a  strength  and  plain 
dignity,  like  the  face  and  manners  of  nature,  all 
men  acknowledge.  .All  men  keep  the  farm  in 
reserve  as  an  asylum  where,  in  case  of  mischance, 
tc  hide  their  poverty,  —  or  a  solitude,  if  they  do 
not  succeed  in  society.  And  who  knows  how  many 
glances  of  remorse  are  turned  this  way  from  the 
bankrupts  of  trade,  from  mortified  pleaders  in 
courts  and  senates,  or  from  the  victims  of  idleness 
and  pleasure?  Poisoned  by  town  life  and  town 
vices,  the  sufferer  resolves :  4  Well,  my  children, 
whom  I  have  injured,  shall  go  back  to  the  land,  to 
be  recruited  and  cured  by  that  which  should  havo 
been  my  nursery,  and  now  shall  be  their  hospital.' 
The  farmer's  office  is  precise  and  important,  but 
you  must  not  tiy  to  paint  him  in  rose-color ;  you 
cannot  make  pretty  compliments  to  fate  and  gravi 
tation,  whose  minister  he  is.  He  represents  the 
necessities.  It  is  the  beauty  of  the  great  economy 
of  the  world  that  makes  his  comeliness.  He  benda 
to  the  order  of  the  seasons,  the  weather,  the  soili 
and  crops,  as  the  sails  of  a  ship  bend  to  the  wind. 
He  represents  continuous  hard  labor,  year  in,  year 
out,  and  small  gains.  He  is  a  slow  person,  timed 
to  nature,  and  not  to  city  watches.  He  takes  the 
pace  of  seasons,  plants,  and  chemistry.  Nature  never 
hurries  :  atom  by  atom,  little  by  little,  she"  achieves 
her  work,  The  lesson  one  learns  in  fishing,  yacht 


FARMING.  125 

ing,  hunting,  or  planting,  is  the  manners  of  Nature ; 
patience  with  the  delays  of  wind  and  sun,  delays  of 
the  seasons,  bad  weather,  excess  or  lack  of  water, 
—  patience  with  the  slowness  of  our  feet,  with  the 
parsimony  of  our  strength,  with  the  largeness  of  sea 
and  land  we  must  traverse,  etc.  The  farmer  times 
himself  to  Nature,  and  acquires  that  livelong  patience 
which  belongs  to  her.  Slow,  narrow  man,  his  rule 
is,  that  the  earth  shall  feed  and  clothe  him ;  and  he 
must  wait  for  his  crop  to  grow.  His  entertainments, 
his  liberties,  and  his  spending  must  be  on  a  farmer's 
scale,  and  not  on  a  merchant's.  It  were  as  false  for 
farmers  to  use  a  wholesale  and  massy  expense,  as 
for  states  to  use  a  minute  economy.  But  if  thus 
pinched  on  one  side,  he  has  compensatory  advan 
tages.  He  is  permanent,  clings  to  his  land  as  the 
rocks  do.  In  the  town  where  I  live,  farms  remain 
in  the  same  families  for  seven  and  eight  genera 
tions  ;  and  most  of  the  first  settlers  (in  1635), 
should  they  reappear  on  the  farms  to-day,  would 
find  their  own  blood  and  names  still  in  possession. 
And  the  like  fact  holds  in  the  surrounding  towns. 

This  hard  work  will  always  be  done  by  one  kind 
of  man ;  not  by  scheming  speculators,  nor  by  sol 
diers,  nor  professors,  nor  readers  of  Tennyson  ;  but 
by  men  of  endurance,  —  deep-chested,  long-winded, 
tough,  slow  and  sure,  and  timely.  The  farmer  has 
a  great  health,  and  the  appetite  of  health,  and  means 
to  his  end:  he  has  broad  lands  for  his  home,  wood  to 


126  FARMING. 

burn  great  fires,  plenty  of  plain  food ;  his  milk,  at 
^east,  is  un watered ;  and  for  sleep,  he  has  cheaper 
and  better  and  more  of  it  than  citizens. 

He  has  grave  trusts  confided  to  him.  In  the 
great  household  of  Nature,  the  farmer  stands  at 
the  door  of  the  bread-room,  and  weighs  to  each 
hi&  loaf.  It  is  for  him  to  say  whether  men  shall 
marry  or  not.  Early  marriages  and  the  number 
of  births  are  indissolubly  connected  with  abundance 
of  food ;  or,  as  Burke  said,  "  Man  breeds  at  the 
mouth."  Then  he  is  the  Board  of  Quarantine. 
The  farmer  is  a  hoarded  capital  of  health,  as  the 
farm  is  the  capital  of  wealth ;  and  it  is  from  him 
that  the  health  and  power,  moral  and  intellectual, 
of  the  cities  came.  The  city  is  always  recruited 
from  the  country.  The  men  in  cities  who  are  the 
centres  of  energy,  the  driving-wheels  of  trade,  pol 
itics,  or  practical  arts,  and  the  women  of  beauty 
and  genius  are  the  children  or  grandchildren  of 
farmers,  and  are  spending  the  energies  which  their 
fathers'  hardy,  silent  life  accumulated  in  frosty  fur 
rows,  in  poverty,  necessity,  and  darkness. 

He  is  the  continuous  benefactor.  He  who  digs  a 
well,  constructs  a  stone  fountain,  plants  a  grove  of 
trees  by  the  roadside,  plants  an  orchard,  builds  a 
durable  house,  reclaims  a  swamp,  or  so  much  as  puts 
a  stone  seat  by  the  wayside,  makes  the  land  so  far 
lovely  and  desirable,  makes  a  fortune  which  he  can 
not  carry  away  with  him,  but  which  is  useful  to  his 


FARMING.  127 

country  long  afterwards.  The  man  that  works  at 
home  helps  society  at  large  with  somewhat  more  of 
certainty  than  he  who  devotes  himself  to  charities. 
If  it  be  true  that,  not  by  votes  of  political  parties,  but 
by  the  eternal  laws  of  political  economy,  slaves  are 
driven  out  of  a  slave  State  as  fast  as  it  is  surrounded 
by  free  States,  then  the  true  abolitionist  is  the  farmer, 
who,  heedless  of  laws  and  constitutions,  stands  all 
day  in  the  field,  investing  his  labor  in  the  land,  and 
making  a  product  with  which  no  forced  labor  can 
compete. 

We  commonly  say  that  the  rich  man  can  speak 
the  truth,  can  afford  honesty,  can  afford  indepen 
dence  of  opinion  and  action ;  —  and  that  is  the  theory 
of  nobility.  But  it  is  the  rich  man  in  a  true  sense, 
that  is  to  say,  not  the  man  of  large  income  and  large 
expenditure,  but  solely  the  man  whose  outlay  is  less 
than  his  income  and  is  steadily  kept  so. 

In  English  factories,  the  boy  that  watches  the 
loom,  to  tie  the  thread  when  the  wheel  stops  to  indi 
cate  that  a  thread  is  broken,  is  called  a  minder. 
And  in  this  great  factory  of  our  Copernican  globe, 
shifting  its  slides ;  rotating  its  constellations,  times, 
and  tides ;  bringing  now  the  day  of  planting,  then 
of  watering,  then  of  weeding,  then  of  reaping,  then 
of  curing  and  storing,  —  the  farmer  is  the  minder. 
His  machine  is  of  colossal  proportions,  —  the  diam 
eter  of  the  water-wheel,  the  arms  of  the  levers,  the 
power  of  the  battery,  are  out  of  all  mechanic  meas- 


128  FARMING. 

ure ;  —  and  it  takes  him  long  to  understand  its 
parts  and  its  working.  This  pump  never  "  sucks  "  ; 
these  screws  are  never  loose  ;  this  machine  is  never 
out  of  gear ;  the  vat  and  piston,  wheels  and  tires, 
never  wear  out,  but  are  self-repairing. 

Who  are  the  farmer's  servants  ?  Not  the  Irish, 
nor  the  coolies,  but  Geology  and  Chemistry,  the 
quarry  of  the  air,  the  water  of  the  brook,  the  light 
ning  of  the  cloud,  the  castings  of  the  worm,  the 
plough  of  the  frost.  Long  before  he  was  born,  the 
sun  of  ages  decomposed  the  rocks,  mellowed  his  land, 
soaked  it  with  light  and  heat,  covered  it  with  vege 
table  film,  then  with  forests,  and  accumulated  the 
sphagnum  whose  decays  made  the  peat  of  his  meadow. 

Science  has  shown  the  great  circles  in  which 
nature  works ;  the  manner  in  which  marine  plants 
balance  the  marine  animals,  as  the  land  plants  sup 
ply  the  oxygen  which  the  animals  consume,  and 
the  animals  the  carbon  which  the  plants  absorb. 
These  activities  are  incessant.  Nature  works  on  a 
method  of  all  for  each  and  each  for  all.  The  strain 
that  is  made  on  one  point  bears  on  every  arch  and 
foundation  of  the  structure.  There  is  a  perfect  soli 
darity.  You  cannot  detach  an  atom  from  its  hold 
ings,  or  strip  off  from  it  the  electricity,  gravitation, 
chemic  affinity,  or  the  relation  to  light  and  heat, 
and  leave  the  atom  bare.  No,  it  brings  with  it  its 
universal  ties. 

Nature,  like  a  cautious  testator,  ties  up  her  estate 


FARMING.  129 

so  as  not  to  bestow  it  all  on  one  generation,  but  has 
a  forelooking  tenderness  and  equal  regard  to  the 
next  and  the  next,  and  the  fourth,  and  the  fortieth 

age- 
There  lie  the  inexhaustible  magazines.  The 
eternal  rocks,  as  we  call  them,  have  held  their  oxy 
gen  or  lime  undiminished,  entire,  as  it  was.  No 
particle  of  oxygen  can  rust  or  wear,  but  has  the 
same  energy  as  on  the  first  morning.  The  good 
rocks,  those  patient  waiters,  say  to  him  :  '  We  have 
the  sacred  power  as  we  received  it.  We  have  not 
failed  of  our  trust,  and  now  —  when  in  our  immense 
day  the  hour  is  at  last  struck  —  take  the  gas  we  have 
hoarded ;  mingle  it  with  water ;  and  let  it  be  free  to 
grow  in  plants  and  animals,  and  obey  the  thought 
of  man.' 

The  earth  works  for  him ;  the  earth  is  a  machine 
•which  yields  almost  gratuitous  service  to  every  ap 
plication  of  intellect.  Every  plant  is  a  manufacturer 
of  soil.  In  the  stomach  of  the  plant  development 
begins.  The  tree  can  draw  on  the  whole  air,  the 
whole  earth,  on  all  the  rolling  main.  The  plant 
is  all  suction-pipe,  —  imbibing  from  the  ground  by 
its  root,  from  the  air  by  its  leaves,  with  all  its 
might. 

The  air  works  for  him.  The  atmosphere,  a 
sharp  solvent,  drinks  the  essence  and  spirit  of 
every  solid  on  the  globe,  —  a  menstruum  which 
melts  the  mountains  into  it.  Air  is  matter  subdued 


130  FARMING. 

by  heat.  As  the  sea  is  the  grand  receptacle  of  all 
rivers,  so  the  air  is  the  receptacle  from  which  all 
tilings  spring,  and  into  which  they  all  return.  The 
invisible  and  creeping  air  takes  form  and  solid  mass. 
Our  senses  are  sceptics,  and  believe  only  the  im 
pression  of  the  moment,  and  do  not  believe  the 
chemical  fact  that  these  huge  mountain-chains  are 
made  up  of  gases  and  rolling  wind.  But  Nature  is 
as  subtle  as  she  is  strong.  She  turns  her  capital 
day  by  day  ;  deals  never  with  dead,  but  ever  with 
quick  subjects.  All  things  are  flowing,  even  those 
that  seem  immovable.  The  adamant  is  always  pass 
ing  into  smoke.  The  plants  imbibe  the  materials 
which  they  want  from  the  air  and  the  ground. 
They  burn,  that  is,  exhale  and  decompose  their 
own  bodies  into  the  air  and  earth  again.  The  ani 
mal  burns,  or  undergoes  the  like  perpetual  consump 
tion.  The  earth  burns,  —  the  mountains  burn  and 
decompose,  —  slower,  but  incessantly.  It  is  almost 
inevitable  to  push  the  generalization  up  into  higher 
parts  of  nature,  rank  over  rank  into  sentient  beings. 
Nations  burn  with  internal  fire  of  thought  and  affec 
tion,  which  wastes  while  it  works.  We  shall  find 
finev  combustion,  and  finer  fuel.  Intellect  is  a  fire  : 
.rash  and  pitiless  it  melts  this  wonderful  bone-house 
which  is  called  man  Genius  even,  as  it  is  the  great 
est  good,  is  the  greatest  harm.  Whilst  all  thus 
burns,  —  the  universe  in  a  blaze  kindled  from  the 
torch  of  the  sun,  —  it  needs  a  perpetual  tempering, 


FARMING.  131 

h  phlegm,  a  ^e^,  eitmosphercs  of  azote,  debges  of 
water,  to  check  the  fury  of  the  conflagration ;  a 
hoarding  to  check  the  spending  ;  a  centripetence 
equal  to  the  centrifugence :  and  this  is  invariably 
supplied. 

The  railroad  dirt-cars  are  good  excavators ;  but 
there  is  no  porter  like  Gravitation,  who  will  bring 
down  any  weights  which  man  cannot  carry,  and 
if  he  wants  aid,  knows  where  to  find  his  fellow 
laborers.  Water  works  in  masses,  and  sets  its  ir 
resistible  shoulder  to  your  mills  or  your  ships,  or 
transports  vast  boulders  of  rock  in  its  iceberg  a 
thousand  miles.  But  its  far  greater  power  de 
pends  on  its  talent  of  becoming  little,  and  entering 
the  smallest  holes  and  pores.  By  this  agency,  car 
rying  in  solution  elements  needful  to  every  plant, 
the  vegetable  world  exists. 

But  as  I  said,  we  must  not  paint  the  farmer  in 
rose-color.  Whilst  these  grand  energies  have 
wrought  for  him,  and  made  his  task  possible,  he  is 
habitually  engaged  in  small  economies,  and  is  taught 
the  power  that  lurks  in  petty  things.  Great  is  the 
force  of  a  few  simple  arrangements ;  for  instance, 
the  powers  of  a  fence.  On  the  prairie  you  wander 
a  hundred  miles,  and  hardly  find  a  stick  or  a  stone. 
At  rare  intervals,  a  thin  oak  opening  has  been 
spared,  and  every  such  section  has  been  long  occu 
pied.  But  the  farmer  manages  to  procure  wood 
from  far,  puts  up  a  rail  fence,  and  at  once  the 


132  FARMING 

seeds  sprout  and  the  oaks  rise.  It  was  only 
browsing  and  fire  whi,>h  had  kept  them  down. 
Plant  fruit-trees  by  the  roadside,  and  their  fruit 
will  never  be  allowed  to  ripen.  Draw  a  pine  fence 
about  them,  and  for  fifty  years  they  mature  for  the 
owner  their  delicate  fruit.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  enchantment  in  a  chestnut  rail  or  picketed  pine 
boards. 

Nature  suggests  every  economical  expedient 
somewhere  on  a  great  scale.  Set  out  a  pine- 
tree,  and  it  dies  in  the  first  year,  or  lives  a  poor 
spindle.  But  Nature  drops  a  pine-cone  in  Mari- 
posa,  and  it  lives  fifteen  centuries,  grows  three  or 
four  hundred  feet  high,  and  thirty  in  diameter,  — 
grows  in  a  grove  of  giants,  like  a  colonnade  of 
Thebes.  Ask  the  tree  how  it  was  done.  It  did 
not  grow  on  a  ridge,  but  in  a  basin,  where  it  found 
deep  soil,  cold  enough  and  dry  enough  for  the  pine; 
defended  itself  from  the  sun  by  growing  in  groves, 
and  from  the  wind  by  the  walls  of  the  mountain. 
The  roots  that  shot  deepest,  and  the  stems  of  hap 
piest  exposure,  drew  the  nourishment  from  the  rest, 
until  the  less  thrifty  perished  and  manured  the 
soil  for  the  stronger,  and  the  mammoth  Sequoias  rose 
to  tneir  enormous  proportions.  The  traveller  who 
saw  them  remembered  his  orchard  at  home,  where 
every  year,  in  the  destroying  wind,  his  forlorn 
trees  pined  like  suffering  virtue.  In  September, 
when  the  pears  hang  heaviest,  and  are  taking  from 


FARMING.  133 

the  sun  their  gay  colors,  comes  usually  a  gusty  day 
which  shakes  the  whole  garden,  and  throws  down 
the  heaviest  fruit  in  bruised  heaps.  The  planter 
took  the  hint  of  the  Sequoias,  built  a  high  wall, 
or — better — surrounded  the  orchard  with  a  nurs 
ery  of  birches  and  evergreens.  Thus  he  had  the 
mountain  basin  in  miniature  ;  and  his  pears  grew  to 
the  size  of  melons,  and  the  vines  beneath  them  ran 
an  eighth  of  a  mile.  But  this  shelter  creates  a  new 
climate.  The  wall  that  keeps  off  the  strong  wind 
keeps  off  the  cold  wind.  The  high  wall  reflecting 
the  heat  back  on  the  soil  gives  that  acre  a  quadruple 
share  of  sunshine, 

"  Enclosing  in  the  garden  square 
A  dead  and  standing  pool  of  air/' 

and  makes  a  little  Cuba  within  it,  whilst  all  without 
is  Labrador. 

The  chemist  comes  to  his  aid  every  year  by  fol 
lowing  out  some  new  hint  drawn  from  nature,  and 
now  affirms  that  this  dreary  space  occupied  by  the 
farmer  is  needless  :  he  will  concentrate  his  kitchen- 
garden  into  a  box  of  one  or  two  rods  square,  will 
take  the  roots  into  his  laboratory ;  the  vines  and 
stalks  and  stems  may  go  sprawling  about  in  the 
fields  outside,  he  will  attend  to  the  roofs  in  his  tub, 
gorge  them  with  food  that  is  good  for  them.  Tho 
smaller  his  garden,  the  better  he  can  feed  it,  and 
the  larger  the  crop.  As  he  nursed  his  Thanksgiving 
turkevs  on  bread  and  milk,  so  he  will  pamper  hia 


134  FARMING. 

peaches  and  grapes  on  the  viands  they  like  best. 
If  they  have  an  appetite  for  potash,  or  salt,  or  iron, 
or  ground  bones,  or  even  now  and  then  for  a  dead 
hog,  he  will  indulge  them.  They  keep  the  secret 
well,  and  never  tell  on  your  table  whence  they  drew 
their  sunset  complexion  or  their  delicate  flavors. 

See  what  the  farmer  accomplishes  by  a  cartload  of 
tiles  :  he  alters  the  climate  by  letting  off  water  which 
kept  the  land  cold  through  constant  evaporation, 
and  allows  the  warm  rain  to  bring  down  into  the 
roots  the  temperature  of  the  air  and  of  the  surface* 
soil ;  and  he  deepens  the  soil,  since  the  discharge 
of  this  standing  water  allows  the  roots  of  his  plants 
to  penetrate  below  the  surface  to  the  suosoil,  and 
accelerates  the  ripening  of  the  crop.  The  town  of 
Concord  is  one  of  the  oldest  towns  in  this  country, 
far  on  now  in  its  third  century.  The  selectmen 
have  once  in  every  five  years  perambulated  the  boun 
daries,  and  yet,  in  this  very  year,  a  large  quantity 
of  land  has  been  discovered  and  added  to  the  town 
without  a  murmur  of  complaint  from  any  quarter. 
By  drainage  we  went  down  to  a  subsoil  we  did  not 
know,  and  have  found  there  is  a  Concord  under  old 
Concord,  which  we  are  now  getting  the  best  crops 
from  ;  a  Middlesex  under  Middlesex ;  and,  in  fine, 
that  Massachusetts  has  a  basement  story  more  valu 
able,  and  that  promises  to  pay  a  better  rent,  than  all 
the  superstructure.  But  these  tiles  have  acquired  by 
association  a  new  interest.  These  tiles  are  political 


Y 


FARMING. 


economists,  confuters  of  Malthus  and  Ricardo  ;  they 
are  so  many  Young  Americans  announcing  a  better 
era,  —  more  bread.  They  drain  the  land,  make  it 
sweet  and  friable  ;  have  made  English  Chat  Moss  a 
garden,  and  will  now  do  as  much  for  the  Dismal 
Swamp.  But  beyond  this  benefit,  they  are  the  text 
of  better  opinions  and  better  auguries  for  mankind- 

There  has  been  a  nightmare  bred  in  England  of 
indigestion  and  spleen  among  landlords  and  loom- 
lords,  namely,  the  dogma  that  men  breed  too  fast 
for  the  powers  of  the  soil  ;  that  men  multiply  in  a 
geometrical  ratio,  whilst  corn  only  in  an  arithmeti 
cal  ;  and  hence  that,  the  more  prosperous  we  are,  the 
faster  we  approach  these  frightful  limits:  nay,  the 
plight  of  every  new  generation  is  worse  than  of  the 
foregoing,  because  the  first  comers  take  up  the  best 
lands  ;  the  next,  the  second  best  ;  and  each  succeed 
ing  wave  of  population  is  driven  to  poorer,  so  that  the 
land  is  ever  yielding  less  returns  to  enlarging  hosts 
of  eaters.  Henry  Carey  of  Philadelphia  replied  : 
4  Not  so,  Mr.  Malthus,  but  just  the  opposite  of  so  is 
the  fact.' 

The  first  planter,  the  savage,  without  helpers,  with 
out  tools,  looking  chiefly  to  safety  from  his  enemy,  — 
man  or  beast,  —  takes  poor  land.  The  better  lands 
are  loaded  with  timber,  which  he  cannot  clear  ;  they 
need  drainage,  which  he  cannot  attempt.  He  can 
not  plough,  or  fell  trees,  or  drain  the  rich  swamp. 
He  is  a  poor  creature  ;  he  scratches  with  a  sharp 


136  FARMING. 

stick,  lives  in  a  cave  or  a  hutch,  has  no  road  but  the 
trail  of  the  moose  or  bear ;  he  lives  on  their  flesh 
when  he  can  kill  one,  on  roots  and  fruits  when  he 
cannot.  He  falls,  and  is  lame ;  he  coughs,  he  has  a 
stitch  in  his  side,  he  has  a  fever  and  chills :  when  ho 
is  hungry,  he  cannot  always  kill  and  eat  a  bear , 
—  chances  of  war, —  sometimes  the  bear  eats  him. 
*T  is  long  before  he  digs  or  plants  at  all,  and  then 
only  a  patch.  Later  he  learns  that  his  planting  is 
better  than  hunting ;  that  the  earth  works  faster  for 
him  than  he  can  work  for  himself,  —  works  for  him 
when  he  is  asleep,  when  it  rains,  when  heat  over 
comes  him.  The  sunstroke  which  knocks  him  down 
brings  his  corn  up.  As  his  family  thrive,  and  other 
planters  come  up  around  him,  he  begins  to  fell  trees, 
and  clear  good  land  ;  and  when,  by  and  by,  there 
is  more  skill,  and  tools  and  roads,  the  new  genera 
tions  are  strong  enough  to  open  the  lowlands,  where 
the  wash  of  mountains  has  accumulated  the  best 
soil,  which  yield  a  hundred-fold  the  former  crops. 
The  last  lands  are  the  best  lands.  It  needs  science 
and  great  numbers  to  cultivate  the  best  lands,  and 
in  the  best  manner.  Thus  true  political  economy 
is  not  mean,  but  liberal,  and  on  the  pattern  of  the 
sun  and  sky.  Population  increases  in  the  ratio  of 
morality :  credit  exists  in  the  ratio  of  morality. 

Meantime  we  cannot  enumerate  the  incidents  and 
agents  of  the  farm  without  reverting  to  their  influ 
ence  on  the  farmer  He  carries  out  this  cumulative 


FARMING.  137 

preparation  of  means  to  their  last  effect.  This  crust 
of  soil  which  ages  have  refined  he  refines  again  for 
the  feeding  of  a  civil  and  instructed  people.  The 
great  elements  with  which  he  deals  cannot  leave 
him  unaffected,  or  unconscious  of  his  ministry ;  but 
their  influence  somewhat  resembles  that  which  the 
same  Nature  has  on  the  child,  —  of  subduing  and  si 
lencing  him.  We  see  the  farmer  with  pleasure  and 
respect,  when  we  think  what  powers  and  utilities 
are  so  meekly  worn.  He  knows  every  secret  of 
labor :  he  changes  the  face  of  the  landscape.  Put 
him  on  a  new  planet,  and  he  would  know  where  to 
begin ;  yet  there  is  no  arrogance  in  his  bearing,  but 
a  perfect  gentleness.  The  farmer  stands  well  on 
the  world.  Plain  in  manners  as  in  dress,  he  would 
not  shine  in  palaces ;  he  is  absolutely  unknown  and 
inadmissible  therein  ;  living  or  dying,  he  never  shall 
be  heard  of  in  them ;  yet  the  drawing-room  heroes 
put  down  beside  him  would  shrivel  in  his  pres 
ence,  —  he  solid  and  unexpressive,  they  expressed 
to  gold-leaf.  But  he  stands  well  on  the  world, 
—  as  Adam  did,  as  an  Indian  does,  as  Homer's 
.  heroes,  Agamemnon  or  Achilles,  do.  He  is  a  per 
son  whom  a  poet  of  any  clime  —  Milton,  Firdusi, 
or  Cervantes  —  would  appreciate  as  being  really 
a  piece  of  the  old  Nature,  comparable  to  sun  and 
moon,  rainbow  and  flood ;  because  he  is,  as  all  nat 
ural  persons  are,  representative  of  Nature  as  much 
as  these. 


138  FARMING. 

That  uncorrupted  behavior  which  we  admire  in 
animals  and  in  young  children  belongs  to  him,  to 
the  hunter,  the  sailor,  —  the  man  who  lives  in 
the  presence  of  Nature.  Cities  force  growth,  and 
make  men  talkative  and  entertaining,  but  they 
make  them  artificial.  What  possesses  interest  for 
us  is  the  naturel  of  each,  his  constitutional  excel 
lence.  This  is  forever  a  surprise,  engaging  and 
lovely;  we  cannot  be  satiated  with  knowing  it, 
and  about  it;  and  it  is  this  which  the  conversa 
tion  with  Nature  cherishes  and  guards. 


WORKS    AND    DATS. 


o 

•j-e 

WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

OUR  nineteenth  century  is  the  age  of  tools. 
They  grow  out  of  our  structure.  "  Man  is  the 
metre  of  all  things,"  said  Aristotle  ;  u  the  hand  is 
the  instrument  of  instruments,  and  the  mind  is  the 
form  of  forms."  The  human  body  is  the  magazine 
of  inventions,  the  patent-office,  where  are  the 
models  from  which  every  hint  was  taken.  All  the 
tools  and  engines  on  earth  are  only  extensions  of  its 
limbs  and  senses.  One  definition  of  man  is  "  an  in 
telligence  served  by  organs."  Machines  can  only 
second,  not  supply,  his  unaided  senses.'  The  body 
is  a  metre.  The  eye  appreciates  finer  differences 
than  art  can  expose.  The  apprentice  clings  to  his 
foot-rule  ,  a  practised  mechanic  will  measure  by  his 
thumb  and  his  arm  with  equal  precision ;  and  a  good 
surveyor  will  pace  sixteen  rods  more  accurately  than 
another  man  can  measure  them  by  tape.  The  sym 
pathy  of  eye  and  hand  by  which  an  Indian  or  a 
practised  slinger  hits  his  mark  with  a  stone,  or  a 
wood-chopper  or  a  carpenter  swings  his  axe  to  a 
hair-line  on  his  log,  are  examples ;  and  there  is  no 
sense  or  organ  which  is  not  capable  of  exquisite  per 
formance. 


142  WORKS  AND   DAYS. 

Men  love  to  wonder,  and  that  is  the  seed  of  our 
science  ;  and  such  is  the  mechanical  determination 
of  our  age,  and  so  recent  are  our  best  contrivances, 
that  use  has  not  dulled  our  joy  and  pride  in  them  ; 
and  we  pity  our  fathers  for  dying  before  steam  and 
galvanism,  sulphuric  ether  and  ocean  telegraphs, 
photograph  and  spectroscope  arrived,  as  cheated  out 
of  half  their  human  estate.  These  arts  open  great 
gates  of  a  future,  promising  to  make  the  world 
plastic  and  to  lift  human  life  out  of  its  beggary  to 
a  godlike  ease  and  power. 

Our  century,  to  be  sure,  had  inherited  a  tolerable 
apparatus.  We  had  the  compass,  the  printing-press, 
watches,  the  spiral  spring,  the  barometer,  the  tele 
scope.  Yet  so  many  inventions  have  been  added,  that 
life  seems  almost  made  over  new  ;  and  as  Leibnitz 
said  of  Newton,  "  that  if  he  reckoned  all  that  had 
been  done  by  mathematicians  from  the  beginning  of 
the  world  down  to  Newton,  and  what  had  been  done 
by  him,  his  would  be  the  better  half,"  so  one  might 
say  that  the  inventions  of  the  last  fifty  years  counter 
poise  those  of  the  fifty  centuries  before  them.  For 
the  vast  production  and  manifold  application  of  iron 
is  new ;  and  our  common  and  indispensable  utensils 
of  house  and  farm  are  new;  the  sewing-machine, 
the  power-loom,  the  McCormick  reaper,  the  mow 
ing-machines,  gas-light,  lucifer  matches,  and  the  im 
mense  productions  of  the  laboratory,  are  new  in  this 
century,  and  one  franc's  worth  of  coal  does  the 
work  of  a  laborer  for  twenty  days. 


WORKS   AND   DAYS.  143 

Why  need  I  speak  of  steam,  the  enemy  of  space 
and  time,  with  its  enormous  strength  and  delicate 
applicability,  which  is  made  in  hospitals  to  bring  a 
bowl  of  gruel  to  a  sick  man's  bed,  and  can  twist 
beams  of  iron  like  candy-braids,  and  vies  with  the 
forces  which  upheaved  and  doubled  over  the  geo 
logic  strata  ?  Steam  is  an  apt  scholar  and  a  strong- 
shouldered  fellow,  but  it  has  not  yet  done  all  its 
work.  It  already  walks  about  the  field  like  a  man, 
and  will  do  anything  required  of  it.  It  irrigates 
crops,  and  drags  away  a  mountain.  It  must  sew 
our  shirts,  it  must  drive  our  gigs  ;  taught  by  Mr. 
Babbage,  it  must  calculate  interest  and  logarithms. 
Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow  thought  it  might  be  made 
to  draw  bills  and  answers  xin  chancery.  If  that 
were  satire,  it  is  yet  coming  to  render  many  higher 
services  of  a  mechanico-intellectual  kind,  and  will 
leave  the  satire  short  of  the  fact. 

How  excellent  are  the  mechanical  aids  we  have 
applied  to  the  human  body,  as  in  dentistry,  in  vac 
cination,  in  the  rhinoplastic  treatment ;  in  the  beau 
tiful  aid  of  ether,  like  a  finer  sleep  ;  and  in  the 
boldest  promiser  of  all,  —  the  transfusion  of  the 
blood,  —  which,  in  Paris,  it  was  claimed,  enables 
a  man  to  change  his  blood  as  often  as  his  linen  ! 

What  of  this  dapper  caoutchouc  and  gutta-percha, 
which  make  water-pipes  and  stomach-pumps,  belt 
ing  for  mill-wheels,  and  diving  bells,  and  rain-proof 
coats  for  all  climates,  which  teach  us  to  defy  the 


144  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

wet,  and  put  every  man  on  a  footing  with  the  bea 
ver  and  the  crocodile  ?  What  of  the  grand  tools 
with  which  we  engineer,  like  kobolds  and  enchant 
ers,  —  tunnelling  Alps,  canalling  the  American  Isth 
mus,  piercing  the  Arabian  desert  ?  In  Massachusetts, 
we  fight  the  sea  successfully  with  beach-grass  and 
broom,  —  and  the  blowing  sand-barrens  with  pine 
plantations.  The  soil  of  Holland,  once  the  most 
populous  in  Europe,  is  below  the  level  of  the  sea. 
Egypt,  where  no  rain  fell  for  three  thousand  years, 
now,  it  is  said,  thanks  Mehemet  Ali's  irrigations 
and  planted  forests  for  late-returning  showers. 
The  old  Hebrew  king  said,  u  He  makes  the  wrath 
of  man  to  praise  him."  And  there  is  no  argu 
ment  of  theism  better  than  the  grandeur  of  ends 
brought  about  by  paltry  means.  The  chain'  of 
western  railroads  from  Chicago  to  the  Pacific  has 
planted  cities  and  civilization  in  less  time  than  it 
costs  to  bring  an  orchard  into  bearing. 

What  shall  we  say  of  the  ocean  telegraph,  that 
extension  of  the  eye  and  ear,  whose  sudden  per 
formance  astonished  mankind  as  if  the  intellect 
were  taking  the  brute  earth  itself  into  training, 
and  shooting  the  first  thrills  of  life  and  thought 
through  the  unwilling  brain  ? 

There  does  not  seem  any  limit  to  these  new  infor 
mations  of  the  same  Spirit  that  made  the  elements 
at  first,  and  now,  through  man,  works  them.  Art 
and  power  will  go  on  as  they  have  done,  —  will 


WORKS   AND   DAYS.  145 

make  day  out  of  night,  time  out  of  space,  and  space 
out  of  time. 

Invention  breeds  invention.  No  sooner  is  the 
electric  telegraph  devised,  than  gutta-percha,  the 
very  material  it  requires,  is  found.  The  aeronaut 
is  provided  with  gun-cotton,  the  very  fuel  he  wants 
for  his  balloon.  When  commerce  is  vastly  enlarged, 
California  and  Australia  expose  the  gold  it  needs. 
When  Europe  is  over-populated,  America  and  Aus 
tralia  crave  to  be  peopled  ;  and  so,  throughout,  ev 
ery  chance  is  timed,  as  if  Nature,  who  made  the 
lock,  knew  where  to  find  the  key. 

Another  result  of  our  arts  is  the  new  intercourse 
which  is  surprising  us  with  new  solutions  of  the 
embarrassing  political  problems.  The  intercourse 
is  not  new,  but  the  scale  is  new.  Our  selfishness 
would  have  held  slaves,  or  would  have  excluded 
from  a  quarter  of  the  planet  all  that  are  not  born  on 
the  soil  of  that  quarter.  Our  politics  are  disgusting  ; 
but  what  can  they  help  or  hinder  when  from  time 
to  time  the  primal  instincts  are  impressed  on  masses 
of  mankind,  when  the  nations  are  in  exodus  and 
flux  ?  Nature  loves  to  cross  her  stocks, —  and  Ger 
man,  Chinese,  Turk,  Russ,  and  Kanaka  were  put 
ting  out  to  sea,  and  intermarrying  race  with  race ; 
and  commerce  took  the  hint,  and  ships  were  built 
capacious  enough  to  carry  the  people  of  a  county. 

This  thousand-handed  art  has  introduced  a  new 
element  into  the  state.  The  science  of  power  is 


146  WORKS   AND   DAYS. 

forced  to  remember  the  power  of  science.  Civiliza 
tion  mounts  and  climbs.  Malthas,  when  he  stated 
that  the  mouths  went  on  multiplying  geometrically, 
and  the  food  only  arithmetically,  forgot  to  say  that 
the  human  mind  was  also  a  factor  in  political  econ 
omy,  and  that  the  augmenting  wants  of  society 
would  be  met  by  an  augmenting  power  of  inven 
tion. 

Yes,  we  have  a  pretty  artillery  of  tools  now  in 
our  social  arrangements  :  we  ride  four  times  as  fast 
as  our  fathers  did ;  travel,  grind,  weave,  forge, 
plant,  till,  and  excavate  better.  We  have  new 
shoes,  gloves,  glasses,  and  gimlets  ;  we  have  the  cal 
culus  ;  we  have  the  newspaper,  which  does  its  best 
to  make  every  square  acre  of  land  and  sea  give 
an  account  of  itself  at  your  breakfast-table ;  we 
have  money,  and  paper  money ;  we  have  language, 
—  the  finest  tool  of  all,  and  nearest  to  the  mind. 
Much  will  have  more.  Man  natters  himself  that 
his  command  over  nature  must  increase.*  Things 
begin  to  obey  him.  We  are  to  have  the  balloon 
yet,  and  the  next  war  will  be  fought  in  the  air. 
We  may  yet  find  a  rose-water  that  will  wash  the 
negro  white.  He  sees  the  skull  of  the  English  race 
changing  from  its  Saxon  type  under  the  exigencies 
of  American  life. 

Tantalus,  who  in  old  times  was  seen  vainly 
trying  to  quench  his  thirst  with  a  flowing  stream, 
which  ebbed  whenever  he  approached  it,  has  been 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  147 

seen  again  lately.  He  is  in  Paris,  in  New  York,  in 
Boston.  He  is  now  in  great  spirits ;  thinks  he 
shall  reach  it  yet ;  thinks  he  shall  bottle  the  wave. 
It  is,  however,  getting  a  little  doubtful.  Things 
have  an  ugly  look  still.  No  matter  how  many  cen 
turies  of  culture  have  preceded,  the  new  man  always 
finds  himself  standing  on  the  brink  of  chaos,  always 
in  a  crisis.  Can  anybody  remember  when  the  times 
were  not  hard,  and  money  not  scarce  ?  Can  any 
body  remember  when  sensible  men,  and  the  right 
sort  of  men,  and  the  right  sort  of  women,  were  plen 
tiful  ?  Tantalus  begins  to  think  steam  a  delusion, 
and  galvanism  no  better  than  it  should  be. 

Many  facts  concur  to  show  that  we  must  look 
deeper  for  our  salvation  than  to  steam,  photographs, 
balloons,  or  astronomy.  These  tools  have  some 
questionable  properties.  They  are  reagents.  Ma 
chinery  is  aggressive.  The  weaver  becomes  a  web, 
the  machinist  a  machine.  If  you  do  not  use  the 
tools,  they  use  you.  All  tools  are  in  one  sense 
edge-tools,  and  dangerous.  A  man  builds  a  fine 
house  ;  and  now  he  has  a  master,  and  a  task  for  life  : 
he  is  to  furnish,  watch,  show  it,  and  keep  it  in  re 
pair,  the  rest  of  his  days.  A  man  has  a  reputation, 
and  is  no  longer  free,  but  must  respect  that.  A 
man  makes  a  picture  or  a  book,  and,  if  it  succeeds, 
't  is  often  the  worse  for  him.  I  saw  a  brave  man 
the  other  day,  hitherto  as  free  as  the  hawk  or  the 
fox  of  the  wilderness,  constructing  his  cabinet  of 


148  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

drawers  for  shells,  eggs,  minerals,  and  mounted 
birds.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was  amusing  him 
self  with  making  pretty  links  for  his  own  limbs. 

Then  the  political  economist  thinks  "  't  is  doubt 
ful  if  all  the  mechanical  inventions  that  ever  existed 
have  lightened  the  day's  toil  of  one  human  being." 
The  machine  unmakes  the  man.  Now  that  the 
machine  is  so  perfect,  the  engineer  is  nobody. 
Every  new  step  in  improving  the  engine  restricts 
one  more  act  of  the  engineer,  —  unteaches  him. 
Once  it  took  Archimedes  ;  now  it  only  needs  a 
fireman,  and  a  boy  to  know  the  coppers,  to  pull  up 
the  handles  or  mind  the  water-tank.  But  when 
the  engine  breaks,  they  can  do  nothing. 

What  sickening  details  in  the  daily  journals  !  I 
believe  they  have  ceased  to  publish  the  u  Newgate 
Calendar  "  and  the  "  Pirate's  Own  Book  "  since  the 
family  newspapers,  namely,  the  New  York  Tribune 
and  the  London  Times,  have  quite  superseded  them 
in  the  freshness,  as  well  as  the  horror,  of  their 
records  of  crime.  Politics  were  never  more  cor 
rupt  and  brutal ;  and  Trade,  that  pride  and  darling 
of  our  ocean,  that  educator  of  nations,  that  bene 
factor  in  spite  of  itself,  ends  in  shameful  defaulting, 
bubble,  and  bankruptcy,  all  over  the  world. 

Of  course,  we  resort  to  the  enumeration  of  his 
arts  and  inventions  as  a  measure  of  the  worth  of 
man.  But  if,  with  all  his  arts,  he  is  a  felon,  we 
cannot  assume  the  mechanical  skill  or  chemical  re- 


WORKS  AND   DAYS  149 

sources  as  the  measure  of  worth.  Let  us  try  another 
gauge. 

What  have  these  arts  done  for  the  character,  for 
the  worth  of  mankind  ?  Are  men  better  ?  'T  is 
sometimes  questioned  whether  morals  have  not  de 
clined  as  the  arts  have  ascended.  Here  are  great 
arts  and  little  men.  Here  is  greatness  begotten  of 
paltriness.  We  cannot  trace  the  triumphs  of  civili 
zation  to  such  benefactors  as  we  wish.  The  great 
est  meliorator  of  the  world  is  selfish,  huckstering 
Trade.  Every  victory  over  matter  ought  to  recom 
mend  to  man  the  worth  of  his  nature.  But  now 
one  wonders  who  did  all  this  good.  Look  up  the 
inventors.  Each  has  his  own  knack  ;  his  genius  is 
in  veins  and  spots.  But  the  great,  equal,  sym 
metrical  brain,  fed  from  a  great  heart,  you  shall  not 
find.  Every  one  has  more  to  hide  than  he  has  to 
show,  or  is  lamed  by  his  excellence.  'T  is  too 
plain  that  with  the  material  power  the  moral  pro 
gress  has  not  kept  pace.  It  appears  that  we  have 
not  made  a  judicious  investment.  Works  and 
days  were  offered  us,  and  we  took  works. 

The  new  study  of  the  Sanskrit  has  shown  us  the 
origin  of  the  old  names  of  God,  —  Dyaus,  Deus, 
Zeus,  Zeu  pater,  Jupiter, —  names  of  the  sun,  still 
recognizable  through  the  modifications  of  our  ver 
nacular  words,  importing  that  the  Day  is  the  Di 
vine  Power  and  Manifestation,  and  indicating  that 
those  ancient  men,  in  their  attempts  to  express 


150  WORKS   AND   DAYS. 

the  Supreme  Power  of  the  universe,  called  him 
the  Day,  and  that  this  name  was  accepted  by  all 
the  tribes. 

Hesiod  wrrote  a  poem  which  he  called  "  Works 
and  Days,"  in  which  he  marked  the  changes  of  the 
Greek  year,  instructing  the  husbandman  at  the  ris 
ing  of  what  constellation  he  might  safely  sow,  when 
to  reap,  when  to  gather  wood,  when  the  sailor 
might  launch  his  boat  in  security  from  storms,  and 
what  admonitions  of  the  planets  he  must  heed.  It 
is  full  of  economies  for  Grecian  life,  noting  the 
proper  age  for  marriage,  the  rules  of  household 
thrift,  and  of  hospitality.  The  poem  is  full  of  piety 
as  well  as  prudence,  and  is  adapted  to  all  merid 
ians,  by  adding  the  ethics  of  works  and  of  days. 
But  he  has  not  pushed  his  study  of  days  into  such 
inquiry  and  analysis  as  they  invite. 

A  farmer  said  "  he  should  like  to  have  all  the 
land  that  joined  his  own."  Bonaparte,  who  had  the 
same  appetite,  endeavored  to  make  the  Mediter 
ranean  a  French  lake.  Czar  Alexander  was  more 
expansive,  and  wished  to  call  the  Pacific  my  ocean; 
and  the  Americans  were  obliged  to  resist  his  at 
tempts  to  make  it  a  close  sea.  But  if  he  had  the 
earth  for  his  pasture,  and  the  sea  for  his  pond,  he 
would  be  a  pauper  still.  He  only  is  rich  who  owns 
the  day.  There  is  no  king,  rich  man,  fairy,  or 
demon  who  possesses  such  power  as  that.  The 
days  are  ever  divine  as  to  the  first  Aryans.  They 


WORKS   AND   DAYS.  151 

are  of  the  least  pretension,  and  of  the  greatest 
capacity,  of  anything  that  exists.  They  come  and 
go  like  muffled  and  veiled  figures,  sent  from  a  dis 
tant  friendly  party ;  but  they  say  nothing  ;  and  if  we 
do  not  use  the  gifts  they  bring,  they  carry  them  as 
silently  away. 

How  the  day  fits  itself  to  the  mind,  winds  itself 
round  it  like  a  fine  drapery,  clothing  all  its  fancies ! 
Any  holiday  communicates  to  us  its  color.  We 
wear  its  cockade  and  favors  in  our  humor.  Re 
member  what  boys  think  in  the  morning  of  "  Elec 
tion  day,"  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  of  Thanksgiving 
or  Christmas.  The  very  stars  in  their  courses  wink 
to  them  of  nuts  and  cakes,  bonbons,  presents,  and 
fireworks.  Cannot  memory  still  descry  the  old 
school-house  and  its  porch,  somewhat  hacked  by 
jack-knives,  where  you  spun  tops  and  snapped  mar 
bles  ;  and  do  you  not  recall  that  life  was  then  calen 
dared  by  moments,  threw  itself  into  nervous  knots 
or  glittering  hours,  even  as  now,  and  not  spread 
itself  abroad  an  equable  felicity  ?  In  college  terms, 
and  in  years  that  followed,  the  young  graduate, 
when  the  Commencement  anniversary  returned, 
though  he  were  in  a  swamp,  would  see  a  festive 
light,  and  find  the  air  faintly  echoing  with  plausive 
academic  thunders.  In  solitude  and  in  the  coun 
try,  what  dignity  distinguishes  the  holy  time  !  The 
old  Sabbath,  or  Seventh  Day,  white  with  the  relig 
ions  of  unknown  thousands  of  years,  when  this  hal- 


152  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

lowed  hour  dawns  out  of  the  deep,  —  a  clean  page, 
which  the  wise  may  inscribe  with  truth,  whilst  the 
savage  scrawls  it  with  fetishes,  —  the  cathedral  mu 
sic  of  history  breathes  through  it  a  psalm  to  our 
solitude. 

So,  in  the  common  experience  of  the  scholar,  the 
weathers  fit  his  moods.  A  thousand  tunes  the  vari 
able  wind  plays,  a  thousand  spectacles  it  brings,  and 
each  is  the  frame  or  dwelling  of  a  new  spirit.  I 
used  formerly  to  choose  my  time  with  some  nicety 
for  each  favorife  book.  One  author  is  good  for 
winter,  and  one  for  the  dog-days.  The  scholar  must 
look  long  for  the  right  hour  for  Plato's  Timseus. 
At  last  the  elect  morning  arrives,  the  earlv  dawn, 

c?  »/ 

—  a  few  lights  conspicuous  in  the  heaven,  as  of  a 
world  just  created  and  still  becoming,  —  and  in  its 
wide  leisures  we  dare  open  that  book. 

There  are  days  when  the  great  are  near  us,  when 
there  is  no  frown  on  their  brow,  no  condescension 
even ;  when  they  take  us  by  the  hand,  and  we 
share  their  thought.  There  are  days  which  are 
the  carnival  of  the  year.  The  angels  assume  flesh, 
and  repeatedly  become  visible.  The  imagination  of 
the  gods  is  excited,  and  rushes  on  every  side  into 
forms.  Yesterday  not  a  bird  peeped;  the  world 
was  barren,  peaked,  and  pining  :  to-day  't  is  incon-. 
ceivably  populous  ;  creation  swarms  and  meliorates. 

The  days  are  made  on  a  loom  whereof  the  warp 
and  woof  are  past  and  future  time.  They  are 


WORKS   AND   DAYS.  153 

majestically  dressed,  as  if  every  god  brought  a  thread 
to  the  skyey  web.  'T  is  pitiful  the  things  by  which 
we  are  rich  or  poor,  —  a  matter  of  coins,  coats,  and 
carpets,  a  little  more  or  less  stone,  or  wood,  or 
paint,  the  fashion  of  a  cloak  or  hat ;  like  the  luck  of 
naked  Indians,  of  whom  one  is  proud  in  the  posses 
sion  of  a  glass  bead  or  a  red  feather,  and  the  rest 
miserable  in  the  want  of  it.  But  the  treasures 
which  Nature  spent  itself  to  amass,  —  the  secular, 
refined,  composite  anatomy  of  man,  —  which  all  strata 
go  to  form,  which  the  prior  races,  from  infusory  and 
saurian,  existed  to  ripen  ;  the  surrounding  plastic 
natures ;  the  earth  with  its  foods  ;  the  intellectual, 
temperamenting  air ;  the  sea  with  its  invitations  ; 
the  heaven  deep  with  worlds ;  and  the  answering 
brain  and  nervous  structure  replying  to  these  ;  the 
eye  that  looketh  into  the  deeps,  which  again  look 
back  to  the  eye,  —  abyss  to  abyss ;  — these,  not  like 
a  glass  bead,  or  the  coins  or  carpets,  are  given  im 
measurably  to  all. 

This  miracle  is  hurled  into  every  beggar's  hands. 
The  blue  sky  is  a  covering  for  a  market,  and  for  the 
cherubim  and  seraphim.  The  sky  is  the  varnish  or 
glory  with  which  the  Artist  has  washed  the  whole 
work,  —  the  verge  or  confines  of  matter  and  spirit. 
Nature  could  no  farther  go.  Could  our  happiest 
dream  come  to  pass  in  solid  fact,  —  could  a  power 
open  our  eyes  to  behold  "  millions  of  spiritual  crea 
tures  walk  the  earth,"  —  I  believe  I  should  find  that 


154  WORKS   AND   DAYS. 

mid-plain  on  which  they  moved  floored  beneath  and 
arched  above  with  the,  same  web  of  blue  depth  which 
weaves  itself  over  me  now,  as  I  trudge  the  streets 
on  my  affairs. 

'T  is  singular  that  our  rich  English  language 
should  have  no  word  to  denote  the  face  of  the 
\vorld.  Kinde  was  the  old  English  term,  which, 
however,  filled  only  half  the  range  of  our  fine  Latin 
word,  with  its  delicate  future  tense,  —  natura,  about 
to  be  born,  or  what  German  philosophy  denotes  as  a 
becoming.  But  nothing  expresses  that  power  which 
seems  to  work  for  beauty  alone.  The  Greek  Kos- 
mos  did ;  and  therefore,  with  great  propriety,  Hum- 
boldt  entitles  his  book,  which  recounts  the  last  re 
sults  of  science,  Cosmos. 

Such  are  the  days,  —  the  earth  is  the  cup,  the  sky 
is  the  cover,  of  the  immense  bounty  of  nature  which 
is  offered  us  for  our  daily  aliment ;  but  what  a  force 
of  illusion  begins  life  with  us,  and  attends  us  to  the 
end  !  We  are  coaxed,  flattered,  and  duped,  from 
morn  to  eve,  from  birth  to  death ;  and  where  is  the 
old  eye  that  ever  saw  through  the  deception  ?  The 
Hindoos  represent  Maia,  the  illusory  energy  of 
Vishnu,  as  one  of  his  principal  attributes.  As  if,  in 
this  gale  of  warring  elements,  which  life  is,  it  was 
necessary  to  bind  souls  to  human  life  as  mariners 
in  a  tempest  lash  themselves  to  the  mast  and  bul 
warks  of  a  ship,  and  Nature  employed  certain  illu 
sions  as  her  ties  and  straps,  —  a  rattle,  a  doll,  an 


7'y. 

WORKS   AND   DAYS.^'.  l  // 


apple,  for  a  child  ;  skates,  a  river,  a  boat, 
a  gun,  for  the  growing  boy  ;  —  and  I  will  not 
to  name  those  of  the  youth  and  adult,  for  they  are 
numberless.  Seldom  and  slowly  the  mask  falls, 
and  the  pupil  is  permitted  to  see  that  all  is  one  stuff, 
cooked  and  painted  under  many  counterfeit  appear 
ances.  Hume's  doctrine  was  that  the  circumstan 
ces  vary,  the  amount  of  happiness  does  not  ;  that 
the  beggar  cracking  fleas  in  the  sunshine  under  a 
hedge,  and  the  duke  rolling  by  in  his  chariot,  the 
girl  equipped  for  her  first  ball,  and  the  orator  re 
turning  triumphant  from  the  debate,  had  different 
means,  but  the  same  quantity  of  pleasant  excite 
ment. 

This  element  of  illusion  lends  all  its  force  to  hide  j 
the  values  of  present  time.  Who  is  he  that  does  ' 
not  always  find  himself  doing  something  less  than 
his  best  task?  "What  are  you  doing?"  "  0, 
nothing  ;  I  have  been  doing  thus,  or  I  shall  do  so 
or  so,  but  now  I  am  only  —  "  Ah!  poor  dupe, 
will  you  never  slip  out  of  the  web  of  the  master  jug 
gler,  —  never  learn  that,  as  soon  as  the  irrecoverable 
years  have  woven  their  blue  glory  between  to-day 
and  us,  these  passing  hours  shall  glitter  and  draw 
us,  as  the  wildest  romance  and  the  homes  of  beauty 
and  poetry  ?  How  difficult  to  deal  erect  with  them  ! 
The  events  they  bring,  their  trade,  entertainments, 
and  gossip,  their  urgent  work,  all  throw  dust  in  the 
eyes  and  distract  attention.  He  is  a  strong  man  i 


156  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

who  can  look  them  in  the  eye,  see  through  this  jug 
gle,  feel  their  identity,  and  keep  his  own  ;  who 
can  know  surely  that  one  will  be  like  another  to 
the  end  of  the  world,  nor  permit  love,  or  death,  or 
politics,  or  money,  war,  or  pleasure,  to  draw  him 
from  his  task. 

The  world  is  always  equal  to  itself,  and  every 
man  in  moments  of  deeper  thought  is  apprised  that 
he  is  repeating  the  experiences  of  the  people  in 
the  streets  of  Thebes  or  Byzantium.  An  everlast 
ing  Now  reigns  in  nature,  which  hangs  the  same 
roses  on  our  bushes  which  charmed  the  Roman 
and  the  Chaldaean  in  their  hanging  gardens.  '  To 
what  end,  then/  he  asks,  '  should  I  study  lan 
guages,  and  traverse  countries,  to  learn  so  simple 
truths  ? ' 

History  of  ancient  art,  excavated  cities,  recovery 
of  books  and  inscriptions,  —  yes,  the  works  were 
beautiful,  and  the  history  worth  knowing;  and 
academies  convene  to  settle  the  claims  of  the  old 
schools.  What  journeys  and  measurements,  — 
Niebuhr  and  Muller  and  Layard,  —  to  identify  the 
plain  of  Troy  and  Nimroud  town !  And  your 
homage  to  Dante  costs  you  so  much  sailing ;  and  to 
ascertain  the  discoverers  of  America  needs  as  much 
voyaging  as  the  discovery  cost.  Poor  child !  that 
flexile  clay  of  which  these  old  brothers  moulded 
their  admirable  symbols  was  not  Persian,  nor 
Memphian,  nor  Teutonic,  nor  local  at  all,  but  was 


WORKS   AND   DAYS.  157 

common  lime  and  silex  and  water,  and  sunlight,  the 
heat  of  the  blood,  and  the  heaving  of  the  lungs ;  it 
was  that  clay  which  thou  heldest  but  now  in  thy 
foolish  hands,  and  threwest  away  to  go  and  seek  in 
vain  in  sepulchres,  mummy-pits,  and  old  book-shops 
of  Asia  Minor,  Egypt,  and  England.  It  was  the 
deep  to-day  which  all  men  scorn ;  the  rich  poverty, 
which  men  hate  ;  the  populous,  all-loving  solitude, 
which  men  quit  for  the  tattle  of  towns.  HE  lurks, 
Tie  hides,  —  he  who  is  success,  reality,  joy,  and  power. 
One  of  the  illusions  is  that  the  present  hour  is  not 
the  critical,  decisive  hour.  Write  it  on  your  heart 
that  every  day  is  the  best  day  in  the  year.  No  man 
has  learned  anything  rightly,  until  he  knows  that 
every  day  is  Doomsday.  'Tis  the  old  secret  of  the 
gods  that  they  come  in  low  disguises.  'T  is  the 
vulgar  great  who  come  dizened  with  gold  and  jew 
els.  Real  kings  hide  away  their  crowns  in  their 
wardrobes,  and  affect  a  plain  and  poor  exterior.  In 
the  Norse  legend  of  our  ancestors,  Odin  dwells  in 
a  fisher's  hut,  and  patches  a  boat.  In  the  Hindoo 
legends,  Hari  dwells  a  peasant  among  peasants. 
In  the  Greek  legend,  Apollo  lodges  with  the  shep 
herds  of  Admetus  ;  and  Jove  liked  to  rusticate 
among  the  poor  Ethiopians.  So,  in  our  history, 
,Jesus  is  born  in  a  barn,  and  his  twelve  peers  are 
fishermen.  'T  is  the  very  principle  of  science  that 
Nature  shows  herself  best  in  leasts;  't  was  the 
maxim  of  Aristotle  and  Lucretius ;  and,  in  modern 


158  WORKS   AND   DAYS. 

times,  of  Swedenborg  and  of  Halmemann.  The  or 
der  of  changes  in  the  egg  determines  the  age  of  fos 
sil  strata.  So  it  was  the  rule  of  our  poets,  in  the 
legends  of  fairy  lore,  that  the  fairies  largest  in 
power  were  the  least  in  size.  In  the  Christian 
graces,  humility  stands  highest  of  all,  in  the  form  of 
the  Madonna ;  and  in  life,  this  is  the  secret  of  the 
wise.  We  owe  to  genius  always  the  same  debt,  of 
lifting  the  curtain  from  the  common,  and  showing 
us  that  divinities  are  sitting  disguised  in  the  seem 
ing  gang  of  gypsies  and  pedlers.  In  daily  life, 
what  distinguishes  the  master  is  the  using  those 
materials  he  has,  instead  of  looking  about  for  what  v/J 
are  more  renowned,  or  what  others  have  used  well. ' 
"  A  general,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  always  has  troops 
enough,  if  he  only  knows  how  to  employ  those 
he  has,  and  bivouacs  with  them/'  Do  not  refuse 
the  employment  which  the  hour  brings  you,  for 
one  more  ambitious.  The  highest  heaven  of  wis 
dom  is  alike  near  from  every  point,  and  thou  must 
find  it,  if  at  all,  by  methods  native  to  thyself  alone. 

That  work  is  ever  the  more  pleasant  to  the  imagi 
nation  which  is  not  now  required.  How  wistfully, 
when  we  have  promised  to  attend  the  working 
committee,  we  look  at  the  distant  hills  and  their 
seductions  ! 

The  use  of  history  is  to  give  value  to  the  present 
hour  and  its  duty.  That  is  good  which  commends 
to  me  my  country,  my  climate,  my  means  and  nia* 


WORKS   AND   DAYS.  159 

terials,  my  associates.  I  knew  a  man  in  a  certain 
religious  exaltation,  who  "  thought  it  an  honor  to 
wash  his  own  face."  He  seemed  to  me  more  sane 
than  those  who  hold  themselves  cheap. 

Zoologists  may  deny  that  horse-hairs  in  the  wa 
ter  change  to  worms  ;  but  I  find  that  whatever  is 
old  corrupts,  and  the  past  turns  to  snakes.  The 
reverence  for  the  deeds  of  our  ancestors  is  a  treach 
erous  sentiment.  Their  merit  was  not  to  reverence 
the  old,  but  to  honor  the  present  moment ;  and  we 
falsely  make  them  excuses  of  the  very  habit  which 
they  hated  and  defied. 

Another  illusion  is,  that  there  is  not  time  enough 
for  our  work.  Yet  we  might  reflect  that  though 
many  creatures  eat  from  one  dish,  each,  according 
to  its  constitution,  assimilates  from  the  elements 
what  belongs  to  it,  whether  time,  or  space,  or  light, 
or  water,  or  food.  A  snake  converts  whatever  prey 
the  meadow  yields  him  into  snake  ;  a  fox,  into  fox  ; 
and  Peter  and  John  are  working  up  all  existence 
into  Peter  and  John.  A  poor  Indian  chief  of  the 
Six  Nations  of  New  York  made  a  wiser  reply  than 
any  philosopher,  to  some  one  complaining  that  he 
had  not  enough  time.  *'  Well,"  said  Red  Jacket, 
"  I  suppose  you  have  all  there  is." 

A  third  illusion  haunts  us,  that  a  long  duration, 
as  a  year,  a  decade,  a  century,  is  valuable.  But  an 
old  French  sentence  says,  "  God  works  in  mo 
ments,"  —  "  En  pen  cTheure  Dieu  labeure."  We 


160  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

ask  for  long  life,  but  't  is  deep  life,  or  grand  mo-* 
ments,  that  signify.  Let  the  measure  of  time  be 
spiritual,  not  mechanical.  Life  is  unnecessarily 
long.  Moments  of  insight,  of  fine  personal  relation, 
a  smile,  a  glance,  —  what  ample  borrowers  of  eter 
nity  they  are  !  Life  culminates  and  concentrates  ; 
and  Homer  said,  "  The  gods  ever  give  to  mor 
tals  their  apportioned  share  of  reason  only  on  one 
day." 

I  am  of  the  opinion  of  the  poet  Wordsworth, 
"that  there  is  no  real  happiness  in  this  life,  but  in 
intellect  and  virtue."  I  am  of  the  opinion  of  Pliny, 
"  that,  whilst  we  are  musing  on  these  things,  we 
are  adding  to  the  length  of  our  lives."  I  am  of  the 
opinion  of  Glauco,  who  said,  "  The  measure  of  life, 
O  Socrates,  is,  with  the  wise,  the  speaking  and 
hearing  such  discourses  as  yours." 

He  only  can  enrich  me  who  can  recommend  to 
me  the  space  between  sun  and  sun.  'Tis  thej 
measure  of  a  man,  —  his  apprehension  of  a  day.  J 
For  we  do  not  listen  with  the  best  regard  to  the 
verses  of  a  man  who  is  only  a  poet,  nor  to  his  prob 
lems,  if  he  is  only  an  algebraist ;  but  if  a  man  is 
at  once  acquainted  with  the  geometric  foundations 
of  things  and  with  their  festal  splendor,  his  poetry 
is  exact  and  his  arithmetic  musical.  And  him  I 
reckon  the  most  learned  scholar,  not  who  can  un 
earth  for  me  the  buried  dynasties  of  Sesostris  and 
Ptolemy,  the  Sothiac  era,  the  Olympiads  and  con- 


WORKS   AND   DAYS.  161 

sulships,  but  who  can  unfold  the  theory  of  this  par 
ticular  Wednesday.  Can  he  uncover  the  ligaments 
concealed  from  all  but  piety,  which  attach  the  dull 
men  and  things  we  know  to  the  First  Cause  ? 
These  passing  fifteen  minutes,  men  think,  are  time, 
not  eternity ;  are  low  and  subaltern,  are  but  hope 
or  memory,  that  is,  the  way  to  or  the  way  from 
welfare,  but  not  welfare.  Can  he  show  their  tie  ? 
That  interpreter  shall  guide  us  from  a  menial  and 
eleemosynary  existence  into  riches  and  stability. 
He  dignifies  the  place  where  he  is.  This  mendi- 

O  JT 

cant  America,  this  curious,  peering,  itinerant,  imi 
tative  America,  studious  of  Greece  and  Rome,  of 
England  and  Germany,  will  take  off  its  dusty 
shoes,  will  take  off  its  glazed  traveller's-cap,  and 
sit  at  home  with  repose  and  deep  joy  on  its  face. 
The  world  has  no  such  landscape,  the  aeons  of 
history  no  such  hour,  the  future  no  equal  second 
opportunity.  Now  let  poets  sing !  now  let  arts  un 
fold  ! 

One  more  view  remains.  But  life  is  good  only 
when  it  is  magical  and  musical,  a  perfect  timing  and 
consent,  and  when  we  do  not  anatomize  it.  You 
must  treat  the  days  respectfully,  you  must  be  a  day 
yourself,  and  not  interrogate  it  like  a  college  pro 
fessor.  The  world  is  enigmatical,  —  everything 
said,  and  everything  known  or  done,  —  and  must 
not  be  taken  literally,  but  genially.  We  must  be 
at  the  top  of  our  condition  to  understand  anything 


162  WORKS  AND   DAYS. 

rightly.  You  must  hear  the  bird's  song  without 
attempting  to  render  it  into  nouns  and  verbs.  Can 
not  we  be  a  little  abstemious  and  obedient  ?  Can 
not  we  let  the  morning  be  ? 

Everything  in  the  universe  goes  by  indirection. 
There  are  no  straight  lines.  I  remember  well  the 
foreign  scholar  who  made  a  week  of  my  youth  hap 
py  by  his  visit.  "  The  savages  in  the  islands,"  he 
said,  "  delight  to  play  with  the  surf,  coming  in  on 
the  top  of  the  rollers,  then  swimming  out  again,  and 
repeat  the  delicious  manoeuvre  for  hours.  Well, 
human  life  is  made  up  of  such  transits.  There  can 
be  no  greatness  without  abandonment.  But  here 
your  very  astronomy  is  an  espionage.  I  dare  not 
go  out  of  doors  and  see  the  moon  and  stars,  but 
they  seem  to  measure  my  tasks,  to  ask  how  many 
lines  or  pages  are  finished  since  I  saw  them  last. 
Not  so,  as  I  told  you,  was  it  in  Belleisle.  The  days 
at  Belleisle  were  all  different,  and  only  joined  by  a 
perfect  love  of  the  same  object.  Just  to  fill  the 
hour,  —  that  is  happiness.  Fill  my  hour,  ye  gods, 
so  that  I  shall  not  say,  whilst  I  have  done  this, 
'  Behold,  also,  an  hour  of  my  life  is  gone,'  —  but 
rather,  '  I  have  lived  an  hour.' ' 

We  do  not  want  factitious  men,  who  can  do  any 
literary  or  professional  feat,  as,  to  write  poems,  or 
advocate  a  cause,  or  carry  a  measure,  for  money  ; 
or  turn  their  ability  indifferently  in  any  particular 
direction  by  the  strong  effort  of  will.  No,  what 


WOEKS  AND  DAYS.  163 

has  been  best  done  in  the  world,  — the  works  of 
genius,  —  cost  nothing.  There  is  no  painful  effort, 
but  it  is  the  spontaneous  flowing  of  the  thought. 
Shakespeare  made  his  Hamlet  as  a  bird  weaves  its 
nest.  Poems  have  been  written  between  sleeping 
and  waking,  irresponsibly.  Fancy  defines  herself: 

"  Forms  that  men  spy 
With  the  half-shut  eye 
In  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  am  I." 

The  masters  painted  for  joy,  and  knew  not  that 
virtue  had  gone  out  of  them.  They  could  not  paint 
the  like  in  cold  blood.  The  masters  of  English 
lyric  wrote  their  songs  so.  It  was  a  fine  efflores 
cence  of  fine  powers  ;  as  was  said  of  the  letters 
of  the  Frenchwomen,  —  "  the  charming  accident  of 
their  more  charming  existence."  Then  the  poet 
is  never -the  poorer  for  his  song.  A  song  is  no 
song  unless  the  circumstance  is  free  and  fine.  If 
the  singer  sing  from  a  sense  of  duty  or  from  seeing 
no  way  of  escape,  I  had  rather  have  none.  Those 
only  can  sleep  who  do  not  care  to  sleep ;  and  those 
only  write  or  speak  best  who  do  not  too  much  re 
spect  the  writing  or  the  speaking. 

The  same  rule  holds  in  science.  The  savant  is 
often  an  amateur.  His  performance  is  a  memoir 
to  the  Academy  on  fish-worms,  tadpoles,  or  spiders' 
legs  ;  he  observes  as  other  academicians  observe ; 
he  is  on  stilts  at  a  microscope,  and,  —  his  memoir 
finished  and  read  and  printed,  —  he  retreats  into 


164  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

his  routinary  existence,  which  is  quite  separate 
from  his  scientific.  But  in  Newton,  science  was 
as  easy  as  breathing ;  he  used  the  same  wit  to  weigh 
the  moon  that  he  used  to  buckle  his  shoes ;  and  all 
his  life  was  simple,  wise,  and  majestic.  So  was  it 
in  Archimedes,  —  always  self-same,  like  the  sky. 
In  Linna3us,  in  Franklin,  the  like  sweetness  and 
equality,  —  no  stilts,  no  tiptoe  ;  —  and  their  results 
are  wholesome  and  memorable  to  all  men. 

In  stripping  time  of  its  illusions,  in  seeking  to 
find  what  is  the  heart  of  the  day,  we  come  to  the 
.quality  of  the  moment,  and  drop  the  duration  alto* 
gether.  It  is  the  depth  at  which  we  live,  and  not  i 
at  all  the  surface  extension,  that  imports.  We 
pierce  to  the  eternity,  of  which  time  is  the  flitting 
surface  ;  and,  really,  the  least  acceleration  of 
thought,  and  the  least  increase  of  power  of  thought, 
make  life  to  seem  and  to  be  of  vast  duration.  We 
call  it  time  ;  but  when  that  acceleration  and  that 
deepening  take  effect,  it  acquires  another  and  a 
higher  name. 

There  are  people  who  do  not  need  much  experi 
menting  ;  who,  after  years  of  activity,  say,  we 
knew  all  this  before  ;  who  love  at  first  sight  and 
hate  at  first  sight ;  discern  the  affinities  and  repul 
sions  ;  who  do  not  care  so  much  for  conditions  as 
others,  for  they  are  always  in  one  condition,  and 
enjoy  themselves  ;  who  dictate  to  others,  and  are 
not  dictated  to  ;  who  in  their  consciousness  of  de- 


WORKS  AND   DAYS.  165 

serving  success  constantly  slight  the  ordinary  means 
of  attaining  it ;  who  have  self-existence  and  self- 
help  ;  who  are  suffered  to  be  themselves  in  society  ; 
who  are  great  in  the  present ;  who  have  no  talents, 
or  care  not  to  have  them,  —  being  that  which  was 
before  talent,  and  shall  be  after  it,  and  of  which 
talent  seems  only  a  tool ;  —  this  is  character,  the 
highest  name  at  which  philosophy  has  arrived. 

'T  is  not  important  how  the  hero  does  this  or  this, 
but  what  he  is.  What  he  is  will  appear  in  every 
gesture  and  syllable.  In  this  way  the  moment  and 
the  character  are  one. 

'T  is  a  fine  fable  for  the  advantage  of  character 
over  talent,  the  Greek  legend  of  the  strife  of  Jove 
and  Phoebus.  Phoebus  challenged  the  gods,  and 
said,  "  Who  will  outshoot  the  far-darting  Apollo  ?  " 
Zeus  said,  "  I  will."  Mars  shook  the  lots  in  his 
helmet,  and  that  of  Apollo  leaped  out  first.  Apollo 
stretched  his  bow  and  shot  his  arrow  into  the  ex 
treme  west.  Then  Zeus  arose,  and  with  one  stride 
cleared  the  whole  distance,  and  said,  "  Where  shall 
I  shoot  ?  there  is  no  space  left."  So  the  bowman's 
prize  was  adjudged  to  him  who  drew  no  bow. 

And  this  is  the  progress  of  every  earnest  mind ; 
from  the  works  of  man  and  the  activity  of  the  hands 
to  a  delight  in  the  faculties  which  rule  them  ;  from 
a  respect  to  the  works  to  a  wise  wonder  at  this 
mystic  element  of  time  in  which  he  is  conditioned ; 
from  local  skills  and  the  economy  which  reckons 


166  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

the  amount  of  production  per  hour  to  the  finer 
economy  which  respects  the  quality  of  what  is 
done,  and  the  right  we  have  to  the  work,  or  the 
fidelity  with  which  it  flows  from  ourselves  ;  then 
to  the  depth  of  thought  it  betrays,  looking  to  its 
universality,  or,  that  its  roots  are  in  eternity,  not  in 
time.  Then  it  flows  from  character,  that  sublime 
health  which  values  one  moment  as  another,  and 
makes  us  great  in  all  conditions,  and  is  the  only 
definition  we  have  of  freedom  and  power. 


BOOKS. 


BOOKS. 

IT  is  easy  to  accuse  books,  and  bad  ones  are  easily 
found ;  and  the  best  are  but  records,  and  not  the 
things  recorded  ;  and  certainly  there  is  dilettante- 
ism  enough,  and  books  that  are  merely  neutral  and 
do  nothing  for  us.  In  Plato's  "  Gorgias,"  Socrates 
says  :  "  The  shipmaster  walks  in  a  modest  garb  near 
the  sea,  after  bringing  his  passengers  from  JEgina 
or  from  Pontus,  not  thinking  he  has  done  anything 
extraordinary,  and  certainly  knowing  that  his  pas 
sengers  are  the  same,  and  in  no  respect  better  than 
when  he  took  them  on  board."  So  is  it  with  books, 
for  the  most  part :  they  work  no  redemption  in  us. 
The  bookseller  might  certainly  know  that  his  cus 
tomers  are  in  no  respect  better  for  the  purchase 
and  consumption  of  his  wares.  The  volume  is 
dear  at  a  dollar,  and,  after  reading  to  weariness  the 
lettered  backs,  we  leave  the  shop  with  a  sigh,  and 
learn,  as  I  did,  without  surprise,  of  a  surly  bank 
director,  that  in  bank  parlors  they  estimate  all  stocks 
of  this  kind  as  rubbish. 

But  it  is  not  less  true  that  there  are  books  which 
are  of  that  importance  in  a  man's  private  experi-. 


170  BOOKS. 

ence,  as  to  verify  for  him  the  fables  of  Cornelius 
Agrippa,  of  Michael  Scott,  or  of  the  old  Orpheus  of 
Thrace,  —  books  which  take  rank  in  our  life  with 
parents  and  lovers  and  passionate  experiences,  so 
medicinal,  so  stringent,  so  revolutionary,  so  author 
itative,  —  books  which  are  the  work  and  the  proof  of 
faculties  so  comprehensive,  so  nearly  equal  to  the 
world  which  they  paint,  that,  though  one  shuts  them 
with  meaner  ones,  he  feels  his  exclusion  from  them 
to  accuse  his  way  of  living. 

Consider  what  you  have  in  the  smallest  chosen 
library.  A  company  of  the  wrisest  and  wittiest  men 
that  could  be  picked  out  of  all  civil  countries,  in  a 
thousand  years,  have  set  in  best  order  the  results  of 
their  learning  and  wisdom.  The  men  themselves 
were  hid  and  inaccessible,  solitary,  impatient  of  in 
terruption,  fenced  by  etiquette ;  but  the  thought 
which  they  did  not  uncover  to  their  bosom  friend 
is  here  written  out  in  transparent  words  to  us,  the 
strangers  of  another  age. 

We  owe  to  books  those  general  benefits  which 
come  from  high  intellectual  action.  Thus,  I  think, 
we  often  owe  to  them  the  perception  of  immortal 
ity.  They  impart  sympathetic  activity  to  the  moral 
power.  Go  with  mean  people,  and  you  think  life  is- 
mean.  Then  read  Plutarch,  and  the  world  is  a  proud 
place,  peopled  with  men  of  positive  quality,  with 
heroes  and  demigods  standing  around  us,  who  will 
not  let  us  sleep.  Then;  they  address  the  imagina- 


BOOKS.  171 

tion  :  only  poetry  inspires  poetry.  They  become 
the  organic  culture  of  the  time.  College  education 
is  the  reading  of  certain  books  which  the  common 
sense  of  all  scholars  agrees  will  represent  the  sci 
ence  already  accumulated.  If  you  know  that,  — 
for  instance  in  geometry,  if  you  have  read  Euclid 
and  Laplace, — your  opinion  has  some  value  ;  if  you 
do  not  know  these,  you  are  not  entitled  to  give  any 
opinion  on  the  subject;  Whenever  any  sceptic  or 
bigot  claims  to  be  heard  on  the  questions  of  intel 
lect  and  morals,  we  ask  if  he  is  familiar  with  the 
books  of  Plato,  where  all  his  pert  objections  have 
once  for  all  been  disposed  of.  If  not,  ho  has  no 
right  to  our  time.  Let  him  go  and  find  himself  an 
swered  there. 

Meantime  the  colleges,  whilst  they  provide  us 
with  libraries,  furnish  no  professor  of  books ;  and,  I 
think,  no  chair  is  so  much  wanted.  In  a  library  we 
are  surrounded  by  many  hundreds  of  dear  friends, 
but  they  are  imprisoned  by  an  enchanter  in  these 
paper  and  leathern  boxes ;  and  though  they  know 
us,  and  have  been  waiting  two,  ten,  or  twenty  centu 
ries  for  us,  —  some  of  them,  —  and  are  eager  to 
give  us  a  sign,  and  unbosom  themselves,  it  is  the  law 
of  their  limbo  that  they  must  not  speak  until  spoken 
to ;  and  as  the  enchanter  has  dressed  them,  like 
battalions  of  infantry,  in  coat  and  jacket  of  one  cut, 
by  the  thousand  and  ten  thousand,  your  chance  of 
hitting  on  the  right  one  is  to  be  computed  by  the 


172  BOOKS. 

arithmetical  rule  of  Permutation  and  Combina 
tion,  —  not  a  choice  out  of  three  caskets,  but  out  of 
half  a  million  caskets  all  alike.  But  it  happens  in 
our  experience,  that  in  this  lottery  there  are  at  least 
fifty  or  a  hundred  blanks  to  a  prize.  It  seems,  then, 
as  if  some  charitable  soul,  after  losing  a  great  deal 
of  time  among  the  false  books,  and  alighting  upon 
a  few  true  ones  which  made  him  happy  and  wise, 
would  do  a  right  act  in  naming  those  which  have 
been  bridges  or  ships  to  carry  him  safely  over  dark 
morasses  and  barren  oceans,  into  the  heart  of  sacred 
cities,  into  palaces  and  temples.  This  would  be 
best  done  by  those  great  masters  of  books  who  from 
time  to  time  appear, — the  Fabricii,  the  Seldens, 
Magliabecchis,  Scaligers,  Mirandolas,  Bayles,  John 
sons,  whose  eyes  sweep  the  whole  horizon  of  learn 
ing.  But  private  readers,  reading  purely  for  love 
of  the  book,  would  serve  us  by  leaving  each  the 
shortest  note  of  what  he  found. 

There  are  books ;  and  it  is  practicable  to  read 
them,  because  they  are  so  few.  We  look  over  with 
a  sigh  the  monumental  libraries  of  Paris,  of  the  Vati 
can,  and  the  British  Museum.  In  1858,  the  num 
ber  of  printed  books  in  the  Imperial  Library  at  Paris 
was  estimated  at  eight  hundred  thousand  volumes, 
with  an  annual  increase  of  twelve  thousand  volumes  ; 
so  that  the  number  of  printed  books  extant  to-day 
may  easily  exceed  a  million.  It  is  easy  to  count 
the  number  of  pages  which  a  diligent  man  can  read 


BOOKS.  173 

in  a  day,  and  the  number  of  years  which  human 
life  in  favorable  circumstances  allows  to  reading  ; 
and  to  demonstrate,  that,  though  he  should  read 
from  dawn  till  dark,  for  sixty  years,  he  must  die  in 
the  first  alcoves.  But  nothing  can  be  more  decep 
tive  than  this  arithmetic,  where  none  but  a  natural 
method  is  really  pertinent.  I  visit  occasionally  the 
Cambridge  Library,  and  I  can  seldom  go  there  with 
out  renewing  the  conviction  that  the  best  of  it  all  is 

c"> 

already  within  the  four  walls  of  my  study  at  home. 
The  inspection  of  the  catalogue  brings  me  continu 
ally  back  to  the  few  standard  writers  who  are  on 
every  private  shelf;  and  to  these  it  can  afford  only 
the  most  slight  and  casual  additions.  The  crowds 
and  centuries  of  books  are  only  commentary  and 
elucidation,  echoes  and  weakeners  of  these  few 
great  voices  of  Time. 

The  best  rule  of  reading  will  be  a  method  from 
nature,  and  not  a  mechanical  one  of  hours  and 
pages.  It  holds  each  student  to  a  pursuit  of  his 
native  aim,  instead  of  a  desultory  miscellany.  Let 
him  read  what  is  proper  to  him,  and  not  waste  his 
memory  on  a  crowd  of  mediocrities.  As  whole 
nations  have  derived  their  culture  from  a  single 
book,  —  as  the  Bible  has  been  the  literature  as  well 
as  the  religion  of  large  portions  of  Europe,  —  as 
Hafiz  was  the  eminent  genius  of  the  Persians,  Con 
fucius  of  the  Chinese,  Cervantes  of  the  Spaniards  ; 
so,  perhaps,  the  human  mind  would  be  a  gainer, 


174  BOOKS. 

if  all  the  secondary  writers  were  lost,  —  say,  in 
England,  all  but  Shakspeare,  Milton,  and  Bacon, 
—  through  the  profounder  study  so  drawn  to  those 
wonderful  minds.  With  this  pilot  of  his  own  ge 
nius,  let  the  student  read  one,  or  let  him  read  many, 
he  will  read  advantageously.  Dr.  Johnson  said : 
"  Whilst  you  stand  deliberating  which  book  your 
son  shall  read  first,  another  boy  has  read  both  :  read 
anything  five  hours  a  day,  and  you  will  soon  be 
learned." 

Nature  is  much  our  friend  in  this  matter.  Nature 
is  always  clarifying  her  water  and  her  wine.  No 
filtration  can  be  so  perfect.  She  does  the  same 
thing  by  books  as  by  her  gases  and  plants.  There 
is  always  a  selection  in  writers,  and  then  a  selection 
from  the  selection.  In  the  first  place,  all  books  that 
get  fairly  into  the  vital  a"ir  of  the  world  were  writ 
ten  by  the  successful  class,  by  the  affirming  and  ad 
vancing  class,  who  utter  what  tens  of  thousands 
feel  though  they  cannot  say.  There  has  alreadv 
been  a  scrutiny  and  choice  from  many  hundreds  of 
young  pens,  before  the  pamphlet  or  political  chapter 
which  you  read  in  a  fugitive  journal  comes  to  your 
eye.  All  these  are  young  adventurers,  who  pro 
duce  their  performance  to  the  wise  ear  of  Time, 
who  sits  and  weighs,  and,  ten  years  hence,  out  of  a 
million  of  pages  reprints  one.  Again  it  is  judged,  it 
is  winnowed  by  all  the  winds  of  opinion,  and  what 
terrific  selection  has  not  passed  on  it  before  it  can  be 


BOOKS.  175 

reprinted  after  twenty  years, —  and  reprinted  after 
a  century !  —  it  is  as  if  Minos  and  Rhadamantlius 
had  indorsed  the  writing.  'T  is  therefore  an  econ- 
my  of  time  to  read  old  and  famed  books.  Nothing 
can  be  preserved  which  is  not  good  ;  and  I  know 
beforehand  that  Pindar,  Martial,  Terence,  Galen, 
Kepler,  Galileo,  Bacon,  Erasmus,  More,  will  be 
superior  to  the  average  intellect.  In  contempora 
ries,  it  is  not  so  easy  to  distinguish  betwixt  notoriety 
and  fame. 

Be  sure,  then,  to  read  no  mean  books.  Shun  the- 
spawn  of  the  press  on  the  gossip  of  the  hour.  Do 
not  read  what  you  shall  learn,  without  asking,  in 
the  street  and  the  train.  .  Dr.  Johnson  said,  "  he  al 
ways  went  into  stately  shops  "  ;  and  good  travellers 
stop  at  the  best  hotels  ;  for,  though  they  cost  more, 
they  do  not  cost  much  more,  and  there  is  the  good 
company  and  the  best  information.  In  like  manner, 
the  scholar  knows  that  the  famed  books  contain,  first 
and  last,  the  best  thoughts  and  facts.  Now  and 
then,  by  rarest  luck,  in  some  foolish  Grub  Street  is 
the  gem  we  want.  But  in  the  best  circles  is  the 
best  information.  If  you  should  transfer  the  amount 
of  your  reading  day  by  day  from  the  newspaper  to 

the  standard  authors But  who  dare  speak  of 

such  a  thing  ? 

The  three  practical  rules,  then,  which  I  have  to 
offer,  are,  —  1.  Never  read  any  book  that  is  not  a 
year  old.  2.  Never  read  any  but  famed  books. 


176  BOOKS. 

3.  Never  read  any  but  what  you  like ;  or,  in  Shak- 
speare's  phrase, 

"  No  profit  goes  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en  : 
In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect." 

Montaigne  says,  "  Books  are  a  languid  pleasure"  ; 
but  I  find  certain  books  vital  and  spermatic,  not 
leaving  the  reader  what  he  was :  he  shuts  the  book 
a  richer  man.  I  would  never  willingly  read  any 
others  than  such.  And  I  will  venture,  at  the  risk 
of  inditing  a  list  of  old  primers  and  grammars,  to 
count  the  few  books  which  a  superficial  reader  must 
thankfully  use. 

Of  the  old  Greek  books,  I  think  there  are  five 
which  we  cannot  spare :  1.  Homer,  who  in  spite  of 
Pope  and  all  the  learned  uproar  of  centuries,  has 
really  the  true  fire,  and  is  good  for  simple  minds,  is 
the  true  and  adequate  germ  of  Greece,  and  occupies 
that  place  as  history,  which  nothing  can  supply. 
It  holds  through  all  literature,  that  our  best  his 
tory  is  still  poetry.  It  is  so  in  Hebrew,  in  San 
skrit,  arid  in  Greek.  English  history  is  best  known 
through  Shakspeare  ;  how  much  through  Merlin, 
Robin  Hood,  and  the  Scottish  ballads!  —  the  German, 
through  the  Nibelungenlied  ; — the  Spanish,  through 
the  Cid.  Of  Homer,  George  Chapman's  is  the  he 
roic  translation,  though  the  most  literal  prose  ver 
sion  is  the  best  of  all.  2.  Herodotus,  whose  his 
tory  contains  inestimable  anecdotes,  wrhich  brought 
it  with  the  learned  into  a  sort  of  disesteem  ;  but  in 


BOOKS.  177 


these  days,  when  it  is  found  that  what  is  most 
orable  of  history  is  a  few  anecdotes,  and  that  we 
need  not  be  alarmed  though  we  should  find  it  not 
dull,  it  is  regaining  credit.  3.  JEschylus,  the  grand 
est  of  the  three  tragedians,  who  has  given  us  under 
a  thin  veil  the  first  plantation  of  Europe.  The 
"  Prometheus  "  is  a  poem  of  the  like  dignity  and 
scope  as  the  Book  of  Job,  or  the  Norse  Edda. 
4.  Of  Plato  I  hesitate  to  speak,  lest  there  should 
be  no  end.  You  find  in  him  that  which  you  have 
already  found  in  Homer,  now  ripened  to  thought, 

—  the  poet  converted  to  a  philosopher,  with  loftier 
strains  of  musical  wisdom  than  Homer  reached  ;  as 
if  Homer  were  the  youth,  and  Plato  the  finished 
man  ;  yet  with  no  less  security  of  bold  and  perfect 
song,  when  he  cares  to  use  it,  and  with  some  harp- 
strings  fetched  from  a  higher  heaven.     He  contains 
the  future,  as  he  came  out  of  the  past.     In  Plato, 
you  explore  modern  Europe  in  its  causes  and  seed, 

—  all  that  in  thought,  which  the  history  of  Europe 
embodies  or  has  yet  to  embody.     The  well-informed 
man  finds   himself   anticipated.     Plato  is   up  with 
him  too.     Nothing  has  escaped  him.     Every  new 
crop  in   the   fertile   harvest  of  reform,  every  fresh 
suggestion   of  modern  humanity,  is   there.     If  the 
student  wish  to  see  both    sides,   and  justice  done 
to  the  man  of  the  world,  pitiless  exposure  of  ped 
ants,   and  the  supremacy  of  truth  and    the  relig 
ious  sentiment,  he  shall  be  contented   also.   '  Why 


178  BOOKS. 

should  not  young  men  be  educated  on  this  book  ? 
It  would  suffice  for  the  tuition  of  the  race,  —  to 
test  their  understanding,  and  to  express  their  rea 
son.  Here  is  that  which  is  so  attractive  to  all 
men,  —  the  literature  of  aristocracy  shall  I  call  it  ? 
—  the  picture  of  the  best  persons,  sentiments,  and 
manners,  by  the  first  master,  in  the  best  times,  — 
portraits  of  Pericles,  Alcibiades,  Crito,  Prodicus, 
Protagoras,  Anaxagoras,  and  Socrates,  with  the 
lovely  background  of  the  Athenian  and  suburban 
landscape.  Or  who  can  overestimate  the  images 
with  which  Plato  has  enriched  the  minds  of  men, 
and  which  pass  like  bullion  in  the  currency  of  all  na 
tions  ?  Read  the  "  Phaedo,"  the  "  Protagoras,"  the 
"  Phsedrus,"  the  "  Timseus,"  the  "  Republic,"  and 
the  "  Apology  of  Socrates."  5.  Plutarch  cannot 
be  spared  from  the  smallest  library ;  first,  because 
he  is  so  readable,  which  is  much ;  then,  that  he  is 
medicinal  and  invigorating.  The  lives  of  Cimon, 
Lycurgus,  Alexander,  Demosthenes,  Phocion,  Mar- 
cellus,  and  the  rest,  are  what  history  has  of  best. 
But  this  book  has  taken  care  of  itself,  and  the  opinion 
of  the  world  is  expressed  in  the  innumerable  cheap 
editions,  which  make  it  as  accessible  as  a  newspaper. 
But  Plutarch's  "  Morals  "  is  less  known,  and  sel 
dom  reprinted.  Yet  such  a  reader  as  I  am  writ 
ing  to  can  as  ill  spare  it  as  the  "  Lives."  He  will 
read  in  it  the  essays  "  On  the  Dasmon  of  Socrates," 
"  On  Isis  and  Osiris,"  "  On  Progress  in  Virtue," 


BOOKS.  179 

61  On  Garrulity,"  "  On  Love,"  and  thank  anew  the 
art  of  printing,  and  the  cheerful  domain  of  ancient 
thinking.  Plutarch  charms  by  the  facility  of  his 
associations ;  so  that  it  signifies  little  where  you 
open  his  book,  you  find  yourself  at  the  Olympian 
tables.  His  memory  is  like  the  Isthmian  Games, 
where  all  that  was  excellent  in  Greece  was  assem 
bled,  and  you  are  stimulated  and  recruited  by  lyric 
verses,  by  philosophic  sentiments,  by  the  forms  and 
behavior  of  heroes,  by  the  worship  of  the  gods,  and 
by  the  passing  of  fillets,  parsley  and  laurel  wreaths, 
chariots,  armor,  sacred  cups,  and  utensils  of  sacrifice. 
An  inestimable  trilogy  of  ancient  social  pictures  are 
the  three  "  Banquets"  respectively  of  Plato,  Xeno- 
phon,  and  Plutarch.  Plutarch's  has  the  least  ap 
proach  to  historical  accuracy ;  but  the  meeting  of  the 
Seven  Wise  Masters  is  a  charming  portraiture  of 
ancient  manners  and  discourse,  and  is  as.clear  as  the 
voice  of  a  fife,  and  entertaining  as  a  French  novel. 
Xenophon's  delineation  of  Athenian  manners  is  an 
accessory  to  Plato,  and  supplies  traits  of  Socrates ; 
whilst  Plato's  has  merits  of  every  kind,  —  being  a 
repertory  of  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients  on  the 
subject  of  love,  —  a  picture  of  a  feast  of  wits,  not 
less  descriptive  than  Aristophanes^ —  and,  lastly, 
containing  that  ironical  eulogy  of  Socrates  which  is 
the  source  from  which  all  the  portraits  of  that  phi 
losopher  current  in  Europe  have  been  drawn. 
Of  course  a  certain  outline  should  be  obtained  of 


180  BOOKS. 

Greek  history,  in  which  the  important  moments  and 
persons  can  be  rightly  set  down  ;  but  the  shortest 
is  the  best,  and  if  one  lacks  stomach  for  Mr.  G  rote's 
voluminous  annals,  the  old  slight  and  popular  summa 
ry  of  Goldsmith  or  of  Gillies  will  serve.  The  valua 
ble  part  is  the  age  of  Pericles  and  the  next  genera 
tion.  And  here  we  must  read  the  "  Clouds  "  of 
Aristophanes,  and  what  more  of  that  master  we 
gain  appetite  for,  to  learn  our  way  in  the  streets  of 
Athens,  and  to  know  the  tyranny  of  Aristophanes, 
requiring  more  genius  and  sometimes  not  less  cruel 
ty  than  belonged  to  the  official  commanders.  Aris 
tophanes  is  now  very  accessible,  with  much  valua 
ble  commentary,  through  the  labors  of  Mitchell  and 
Cartwright.  An  excellent  popular  book  is  J.  A. 
St.  John's  "  Ancient  Greece  "  ;  the  "  Life  and  Let 
ters  "  of  Niebuhr,  even  more  than  his  Lectures, 
furnish  leading  viewrs  ;  and  Winckelmann,  a  Greek 
born  out  of  due  time,  has  become  essential  to  an  in-  . 
timate  knowledge  of  the  Attic  genius.  The  secret 
of  the  recent  histories  in  German  and  in  English  is 

O 

the  discovery,  owed  first  to  Wolff,  and  later  to 
Boeckh,  that  the  sincere  Greek  history  of  that  pe 
riod  must  be  drawn  from  Demosthenes,  especially 
from  the  business  orations,  and  from  the  comic  poets. 
If  we  come  down  a  little  by  natural  steps  from 
the  master  to  the  disciples,  we  have,  six  or  seven 
centuries  later,  the  Platonists,  —  who  also  cannot  bo 
skipped,  —  Plotinus,  Porphyry,  Proclus,  Synesius, 


BOOKS.  181 

Jamblichus.  Of  Jamblichus  the  Emperor  Julian 
said,  "  that  he  was  posterior  to  Plato  in  time,  not 
in  genius."  Of  Plotinus,  we  have  eulogies  by 
Porphyry  and  Longinus,  and  the  favor  of  the  Em 
peror  Gallienus, —  indicating  the  respect  he  inspired 
among  his  contemporaries.  If  any  one  who  had 
read  with  interest  the  u  Isis  and  Osiris  "  of  Plutarch 
should  then  read  a  chapter  called  "  Providence," 
by  Synesius,  translated  into  English  by  Thomas 
Taylor,  he  will  find  it  one  of  the  majestic  remains 
of  literature,  and,  like  one  walking  in  the  noblest  of 
temples,  will  conceive  new  gratitude  to  his  fellow- 
men,  and  a  new  -estimate  of  their  nobility.  The  im 
aginative  scholar  will  find  few  stimulants  to  his  brain 
like  these  writers.  He  has  entered  the  Elysian 
Fields  ;  and  the  grand  and  pleasing  figures  of  gods 
and  daemons  and  demoniacal  men,  of  the  "  azonic  " 
and  the  "  aquatic  gods,"  demons  with  fulgid  eyes, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  Platonic  rhetoric,  exalted  a  lit 
tle  under  the  African  sun,  sail  before  his  eyes.  The 
acolyte  has  mounted  the  tripod  over  the  cave  at 
Delphi ;  his  heart  dances,  his  sight  is  quickened. 
These  guides  speak  of  the  gods  with  such  depth 
and  with  such  pictorial  details,  as  if  they  had  been 
bodily  present  at  the  Olympian  feasts.  The  reader 
of  these  books  makes  new  acquaintance  with  his 
own  mind ;  new  regions  of  thought  are  opened. 
Jamblichus's  "  Life  of  Pythagoras  "  works  more 
directly  on  the  will  than  the  others  ;  sinse  Pyttago- 


182  BOOKS. 

ras  was  eminently  a  practical  person,  the  founder 
of  a  school  of  ascetics  arid  socialists,  a  planter  of 
colonies,  and  nowise  a  man  of  abstract  studies  alone. 

The  respectable  and  sometimes  excellent  transla 
tions  of  Bohn's  Library  have  done  for  literature 
what  railroads  have  done  for  internal  intercourse.  I 
do  not  hesitate  to  read  all  the  books  I  have  named, 
and  all  good  books,  in  translations.  What  is  really 
best  in  any  book  is  translatable,  —  any  real  insight 
or  broad  human  sentiment.  Nay,  I  observe  that, 
in  our  Bible,  and  other  books  of  lofty  moral  tone, 
it  seems  easy  and  inevitable  to  render  the  rhythm 
and  music  of  the  original  into  phrases  of  equal  mel 
ody.  The  Italians  have  a  fling  at  translators,  —  i  tra- 
ditori  traduttori ;  but  I  thank  them.  I  rarely  read 
any  Latin,  Greek,  German,  Italian,  sometimes  not  a 
French  book  in  the  original,  which  I  can  procure  in 
a  good  version.  I  like  to  be  beholden  to  the  great 
metropolitan  English  speech,  the  sea  which  receives 
tributaries  from  every  region  under  heaven.  I 
should  as  soon  think  of  swimming  across  Charles 
River  when  I  wish  to  go  to  Boston,  as  of  reading 
all  my  books  in  originals,  when  I  have  them  ren 
dered  for  me  in  my  mother-tongue. 

For  history  there  is  great  choice  of  ways  to 
bring  the  student  through  early  Rome.  If  he  can 
read  Livy,  he  has  a  good  book;  but  one  of  the 
short  English  compends,  some  Goldsmith  or  Fergu 
son,  should  be  used,  that  will  place  in  the  cycle  the 


BOOKS.  183 

bright  stars  of  Plutarch.  The  poet  Horace  is  the 
eye  of  the  Augustan  age  ;  Tacitus,  the  wisest  of 
historians ;  and  Martial  will  give  him  Roman  man 
ners,  —  and  some  very  bad  ones,  —  in  the  early  days 
of  the  Empire :  but  Martial  must  be  read,  if  read 
at  all,  in  his  own  tongue.  These  will  bring  him  to 
Gibbon,  who  will  take  him  in  charge,  and  convey 
him  with  abundant  entertainment  down  —  with  no 
tice  of  all  remarkable  objects  on  the  way  —  through 
fourteen  hundred  years  of  time.  He  cannot  spare 
Gibbon,  with  his  vast  reading,  —  with  such  wit  and 
continuity  of  mind,  that,  though  never  profound,  his 
book  is  one  of  the  conveniences  of  civilization,  like 
the  new  railroad  from  ocean  to  ocean,  —  and,  I 
think,  will  be  sure  to  send  the  reader  to  his  "  Me 
moirs  of  Himself,"  and  the  u  Extracts  from  my 
Journal,"  and  "Abstracts  of  my  Readings,"  which 
will  spur  the  laziest  scholar  to  emulation  of  his  pro 
digious  performance. 

Now  having  our  idler  safe  down  as  far  as  the 
fall  of  Constantinople  in  1453,  he  is  in  very  good 
courses ;  for  here  are  trusty  hands  waiting  for  him. 
The  cardinal  facts  of  European  history  are  soon 
learned.  There  is  Dante's  poem,  to  open  the 
Italian  Republics  of  the  Middle  Age  ;  Dante's  "Vi 
ta  Nuova,"  to  explain  Dante  and  Beatrice  ;  and 
Boccaccio's  "Life  of  Dante,"  — a  great  man  to  de 
scribe  a  greater.  To  help  us,  perhaps  a  volume  or 
two  of  M.  Sismondi's  "  Italian  Republics  "  will  be 


184  BOOKS. 

as  good  as  the  entire  sixteen.  When  we  come  to 
Michel  Angelo,  his  Sonnets  and  Letters  must  be 
read,  with  his  Life  by  Vasari,  or,  in  our  day,  by 
Herman  Grimm.  For  the  Church,  and  the  Feu 
dal  Institution,  Mr.  Hallam's  "  Middle  Ages  "  will 
furnish,  if  superficial,  yet  readable  and  conceivable 
outlines. 

The  "  Life  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,"  by  the 
useful  Robertson,  is  still  the  key  of  the  following 
age.  Ximenes,  Columbus,  Loyola,  Luther,  Eras 
mus,  Melanchthon,  Francis  L,  Henry  VIII.,  Eliza 
beth,  and  Henry  IV.  of  France,  are  his  contem 
poraries.  It  is  a  time  of  seeds  and  expansions, 
whereof  our  recent  civilization  is  the  fruit. 

If  now  the  relations  of  England  to  European  af 
fairs  bring  him  to  British  ground,  he  is  arrived  at 
the  very  moment  when  modern  history  takes  new 
proportions..  He  can  look  back  for  the  legends  and 
mythology  to  the  "  Younger  Edda "  and  the 
"  Heimskringla  "  of  Snorro  Sturleson,  to  Mallet's 
"  Northern  Antiquities,"  to  Ellis's  "  Metrical  Ro 
mances,"  to  Asser's  "  Life  of  Alfred  "  and  Vener 
able  Bede,  and  to  the  researches  of  Sharon  Turner 
and  Palgrave.  Hume  will  serve  him  for  an  intelli 
gent  guide,  and  in  the  Elizabethan  era  he  is  at  the 
richest  period  of  the  English  mind,  with  the  chief 
men  of  action  and  of  thought  which  that  nation  has 
produced,  and  with  a  pregnant  future  before  him. 
Here  he  has  Shakspeare,  Spenser,  Sidney,  Raleigh, 


BOOKS.  185 

Bacon,  Chapman,  Jonson,  Ford,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Herbert,  Donne,  Herrick  ;  and  Milton, 
Marvell,  and  Dry  den,  not  long  after. 

In  reading  history,  he  is  to  prefer  the  history  of 
individuals.  He  will  not  repent  the  time  he  gives 
to  Bacon,  —  not  if  he  read  the  "  Advancement  of 
Learning,"  the  u  Essays,"  the  "  Novum  Organum," 
the  "  History  of  Henry  VII.,"  and  then  all  the 
"  Letters  "  (especially  those  to  the  Earl  of  Devon 
shire,  explaining  the  Essex  business),  and  all  but 
his  "Apophthegms." 

The   task  is   aided   by   the  strong   mutual    15o;ht 

J  O  O 

which  these  men  shed  on  each  other.  Thus,  the 
works  of  Ben  Jonson  are  a  sort  of  hoop  to  bind  all 
these  fine  persons  together,  and  to  the  land  to  which 
they  belong.  He  has  written  verses  to  or  on  all 
his  notable  contemporaries ;  and  what  with  so 
many  occasional  poems,  and  the  portrait  sketches  in 
his  "  Discoveries,"  and  the  gossiping  record  of  his 
opinions  in  his  conversations  with  Drummond  of 
Hawthornden,  he  has  really  illustrated  the  England 
of  his  time,  if  not  to  the  same  extent,  yet  much  in 
the  same  way,  as  Walter  Scott  has  celebrated  the 
persons  and  places  of  Scotland.  Walton,  Chap 
man,  Herrick,  and  Sir  Henry  Wotton  write  also 
to  the  times. 

Among  the  best  books  are  certain  Autobiogra 
phies  :  as,  St.  Augustine's  Confessions  ;  Benvenuto 
Cellini's  Life ;  Montaigne's  Essays  ;  Lord  Herbert 


186  BOOKS. 

of  Cherbury's  Memoirs  ;  Memoirs  of  the  Cardinal 
de  Retz  ;  Rousseau's  Confessions  ;  Linnacus's  Di 
ary  ;  Gibbon's,  Hume's,  Franklin's,  Burns's,  Al- 
fieri's,  Goethe's,  and  Haydon's  Autobiographies. 

Another  class  of  books  closely  allied  to  these,  and 
of  like  interest,  are  those  which  may  be  called 
Table-Talks  :  of  which  the  best  are  Saadi's  Guli- 
stan ;  Luther's  Table-Talk  ;  Aubrey's  Lives ; 
Spence's  Anecdotes ;  Selden's  Table-Talk  ;  Bos- 
well's  Life  of  Johnson ;  Eckermann's  Conversa 
tions  with  Goethe  ;  Coleridge's  Table-Talk  ;  and 
Hazlitt's  Life  of  Northcote. 

There  is  a  class  whose  value  I  should  designate 
as  Favorites :  such  as  Froissart's  Chronicles ;  Soutli- 
ey's  Chronicle  of  the  Cid ;  Cervantes ;  Sully 's 
Memoirs  ;  Rabelais  ;  Montaigne ;  Izaak  Walton  ; 
Evelyn  ;  Sir  Thomas  Browne  ;  Aubrey  ;  Sterne  ; 
Horace  Walpole  ;  Lord  Clarendon ;  Doctor  John 
son  ;  Burke,  shedding  floods  of  light  on  his  times  ; 
Lamb  ;  Landor  ;  and  De  Quincey  ;  —  a  list,  of 
course,  that  may  easily  be  swelled,  as  dependent  on 
individual  caprice.  Many  men  are  as  tender  and 
irritable  as  lovers  in  reference  to  these  predilections. 
Indeed,  a  man's  library  is  a  sort  of  harem,  and  I 
observe  that  tender  readers  have  a  great  pudency 
in  showing  their  books  to  a  stranger. 

The  annals  of  bibliography  afford  many  examples 
of  the  delirious  extent  to  which  book-fancying  can 
go,  when  the  legitimate  delight  in  a  book  is  trans- 


BOOKS.  187 

ferred  to  a  rare  edition  or  to  a  manuscript.  This 
mania  reached  its  height  about  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century.  For  an  autograph  of  Shakspeare 
one  hundred  and  fifty-five  guineas  were  given.  In 
May,  1812,  the  library  of  the  Duke  of  Roxburgh 
was  sold.  The  sale  lasted  forty-two  days,  —  we 
abridge  the  story  from  Dib^in,  —  and  among  the 
many  curiosities  was  a  copy  of  Boccaccio  published 
by  Valdarfer,  at  Venice,  in  1471 ;  the  only  perfect 
copy  of  this  edition.  Among  the  distinguished 
company  which  attended  the  sale  were  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  Earl  Spencer,  and  the  Duke  of 
Maryborough,  then  Marquis  of  Blandford.  The 
bid  stood  at  five  hundred  guineas.  u  A  thousand 
guineas,"  said  Earl  Spencer :  "  And  ten,"  added 
the  Marquis.  You  might  hear  a  pin  drop.  All  eyes 
were  bent  on  the  bidders.  Now  they  talked  apart, 
now  ate  a  biscuit,  now  made  a  bet,  but  without  the 
least  thought  of  yielding  one  to  the  other.  But  to 
pass  over  some  details,  — the  contest  proceeded  until 
the  Marquis  said,  "  Two  thousand  pounds."  The 
Earl  Spencer  bethought  him  like  a  prudent  general 
of  useless  bloodshed  and  waste  of  powder,  and  had 
paused  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  when  Lord  Althorp 
with  long  steps  came  to  his  side,  as  if  to  bring  his 
father  a  fresh  lance  to  renew  the  fight.  Father  and 
son  whispered  together,  and  Earl  Spencer  ex 
claimed,  "  Two  thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds !  "  An  electric  shock  went  through  the 


188  BOOKS. 

assembly.  "  And  ten,"  quietly  added  the  Marquis. 
There  ended  the  strife.  Ere  Evans  let  the  ham 
mer  fall,  he  paused ;  the  ivory  instrument  swept 
the  air  ;  the  spectators  stood  dumb,  when  the  ham 
mer  fell.  The  stroke  of  its  fall  sounded  on  the 
farthest  shores  of  Italy.  The  tap  of  that  hammer 
was  heard  in  the  libraries  of  Rome,  Milan,  and 
Venice.  Boccaccio  stirred  in  his  sleep  of  five  hun 
dred  years,  and  M.  Van  Praet  groped  in  vain 
among  the  royal  alcoves  in  Paris,  to  detect  a  copy 
of  the  famed  Vaklarfer  Boccaccio. 

Another  class  I  distinguish  by  the  term  Vocabula 
ries.  Burton's  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  "  is  a  book 
of  great  learning.  To  read  it  is  like  reading  in  a  dic 
tionary.  'T  is  an  inventory  to  remind  us  how  many 
classes  and  species  of  facts  exist,  and,  in  observing 
into  what  strange  and  multiplex  by-ways  learning 
has  strayed,  to  infer  our  opulence.  Neither  is  a 
dictionary  a  bad  book  to  read.  There  is  no  cant 
in  it,  no  excess  of  explanation,  and  it  is  full  of  sug 
gestion,  —  the  raw  material  of  possible  poems  and 
histories.  Nothing  is  wanting  but  a  little  shuffling, 
sorting,  ligature,  and  cartilage.  Out  of  a  hundred 
examples,  Cornelius  Agrippa  "  On  the  Vanity  of 
Arts  and  Sciences  "  is  a  specimen  of  that  scriba- 
tiousness  which  grew  to  be  the  habit  of  the  glutton 
ous  readers  of  his  time.  Like  the  modern  Germans, 
they  read  a  literature  while  other  mortals  read  a 
few  books.  They  read  voraciously,  and  must  dis- 


BOOKS.  189 

burden  themselves ;  so  they  take  any  general  topic, 
as,  Melancholy,  or  Praise  of  Science,  or  Praise  of 
Folly,  and  write  and  quote  without  method  or  end. 
Now  and  then  out  of  that  affluence  of  their  learn 
ing  comes  a  fine  sentence  from  Theophrastus,  or 
Seneca,  or  Boethius,  but  no  high  method,  no  in 
spiring  efflux.  But  one  cannot  afford  to  read  for  a 
few  sentences  ;  they  are  good  only  as  strings  of 
suggestive  words. 

There  is  another  class,  more  needful  to  the  pres 
ent  age,  because   the  currents  of  custom  run  now 

&      ' 

in  another  direction,  and  leave  us  dry  on  this  side ; 
—  I  mean  the  Imaginative.  A  right  metaphysics 
should  do  justice  to  the  co-ordinate  powers  of  Imagi 
nation,  Insight,  Understanding,  and  Will.  Poetry, 
with  its  aids  of  Mythology  and  Romance,  must  be 
well  allowed  for  an  imaginative  creature.  Men 
are  ever  lapsing  into  a  beggarly  habit,  wherein 
everything  that  is  not  ciphering,  that  is,  which  does 
not  serve  the  tyrannical  animal,  is  hustled  out  of 
sight.  Our  orators  and  writers  are  of  the  same 
poverty,  and,  in  this  rag-fair,  neither  the  Imagina 
tion,  the  great  awakening  power,  nor  the  Morals, 
creative  of  genius  and  of  men,  are  addressed.  But 
though  orator  and  poet  be  of  this  hunger  party, 
the  capacities  remain.  We  must  have  symbols. 
The  child  asks  you  for  a  story,  and  is  thankful  for 
the  poorest.  It  is  not  poor  to  him,  but  radiant  with 
meaning.  The  man  asks  for  a  novel,  —  that  is, 


190  BOOKS. 

asks  leave  for  a  few  hours  to  be  a  poet,  and  to 
paint  things  as  they  ought  to  be.  The  youth  asks 
for  a  poem.  The  very  dunces  wish  to  go  to  the 
theatre.  What  private  heavens  can  we  not  open, 
by  yielding  to  all  the  suggestion  of  rich  music  !  We 
must  have  idolatries,  mythologies,  —  some  swing 
and  verge  for  the  creative  power  lying  coiled  and 
cramped  here,  driving  ardent  natures  to  insanity 
and  crime  if  it  do  not  find  vent.  Without  the 
great  arts  which  speak  to  the  sense  of  beauty,  a 
man  seems  to  me  a  poor,  naked,  shivering  crea 
ture.  These  are  his  becoming  draperies,  which 
warm  and  adorn  him.  Whilst  the  prudential  and 
economical  tone  of  society  starves  the  imagination, 
affronted  Nature  gets  such  indemnity  as  she  may. 
The  novel  is  that  allowance  and  frolic  the  imagina 
tion  finds.  Everything  else  pins  it  down,  and  men 
flee  for  redress  to  Byron,  Scott,  Disraeli,  Dumas, 
Sand,  Balzac,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Reade. 
Their  education  is  neglected ;  but  the  circulating- 
library  and  the  theatre,  as  well  as  the  trout-fishing, 
the  Notch  Mountains,  the  Adirondack  country,  the 
tour  to  Mont  Blanc,  to  the  White  Hills,  and  the 
Ghauts,  make  such  amends  as  they  can. 

The  imagination  infuses  a  certain  volatility  and 
intoxication.  It  has  a  flute  which  sets  the  atoms 
of  our  frame  in  a  dance,  like  planets ;  and,  once  so 
liberated,  the  whole  man  reeling  drunk  teethe  mu 
sic,  they  never  quite  subside  to  their  old  stony  state. 


BOOKS.  1'Jl 

But  what  is  the  imagination  ?  Only  an  arm  or 
weapon  of  the  interior  energy ;  only  the  precursor 
of  the  reason.  And  books  that  treat  the  old  ped 
antries  of  the  world,  our  times,  places,  professions, 
customs,  opinions,  histories,  with  a  certain  freedom, 
and  distribute  things,  not  after  the  usages  of  America 
and  Europe,  but  after  the  laws  of  right  reason,  and 
with  as  daring  a  freedom  as  we  use  in  dreams,  put 
us  on  our  feet  again,  enable  us  to  form  an  original 
judgment  of  our  duties,  and  suggest  new  thoughts 
for  to-morrow. 

u  LucreziaFloriani,"  "  Le  Peche  de  M.  Antoine," 
"  Jeanne,"  and  u  Consuelo,"  of  George  Sand, 
are  great  steps  from  the  novel  of  one  termination, 
which  we  all  read  twenty  years  ago.  Yet  how  far 
off  from  life  and  manners  and  motives  the  novel  still 
is  !  Life  lies  about  us  dumb  ;  the  day,  as  we  know 
it,  has  not  yet  found  a  tongue.  These  stories  are  to 
the  plots  of  real  life  what  the  figures  in  "  La  Belle 
Assemblee,"  which  represent  the  fashion  of  the 
month,  are  to  portraits.  But  the  novel  will  find 
the  way  to  our  interiors  one  day,  and  will  not  al 
ways  be  the  novel  of  costume  merely.  I  do  not 
think  it  inoperative  now.  So  much  novel-read 
ing  cannot  leave  the  young  men  and  maidens  un 
touched  ;  and  doubtless  it  gives  some  ideal  dignity 
to  the  day.  The  young  study  noble  behavior  ;  and 
as  the  player  in  "Consuelo"  insists  that  he  and  his 
colleagues  on  the  boards  have  taught  princes  the  fine 


192  BOOKS. 

etiquette  and  strokes  of  grace  and  dignity  which 
they  practise  with  so  much  effect  in  their  villas  and 
among  their  dependents,  so  I  often  see  traces  of 
the  Scotch  or  the  French  novel  in  the  courtesy  and 
brilliancy  of  young  midshipmen,  collegians,  and 
clerks.  Indeed,  when  one  observes  how  ill  and 
ugly  people  make  their  loves  and  quarrels,  't  is  pity 
they  should  not  read  novels  a  little  more,  to  import 
the  fine  generosities,  and  the  clear,  firm  conduct, 
which  are  as  becoming  in  the  unions  and  separa 
tions  which  love  effects  under  shingle  roofs  as  in 
palaces  and  among  illustrious  personages. 

In  novels  the  most  serious  questions  are  begin 
ning  to  be  discussed.  What  made  the  popular 
ity  of  u  Jane  Eyre,"  but  that  a  central  question 
was  answered  in  some  sort  ?  The  question  there 
answered  in  regard  to  a  vicious  marriage  will 
always  be  treated  according  to  the  habit  of  the 
party.  A  person  of  commanding  individualism  will 
answer  it  as  Rochester  does,  —  as  Cleopatra,  as 
Milton,  as  George  Sand  do,  —  magnifying  the 
exception  into  a  rule,  dwarfing  the  world  into  an 
exception.  A  person  of  less  courage,  that  is,  of 
less  constitution,  will  answer  as  the  heroine  does, 
—  giving  way  to  fate,  to  conventionalism,  to  the 
actual  state  and  doings  of  men  and  women. 

For  the  most  part,  our  novel-reading  is  a  fassion 
for  results.  We  admire  parks,  and  high-born  beau 
ties,  and  the  homage  of  drawing-rooms,  and  parlia- 


BOOKS.  193 

merits.     They  make  us  sceptical,  by  giving  prom 
inence  to  wealth  and  social  position. 

I  remember  when  some  peering  eyes  of  boys  dis 
covered  that  the  oranges  hanging  on  the  boughs  of 
an  orange-tree  in  a  gay  piazza  were  tied  to  the  twigs 
by  thread.  I  fear  't  is  so  with  the  novelist's  pros 
perities.  Nature  has  a  magic  by  which  she  fits 
the  man  to  his  fortunes,  by  making  them  the  fruit 
of  his  character.  But  the  novelist  plucks  this 
event  here,  and  that  fortune  there,  and  ties  them 
rashly  to  his  figures,  to  tickle  the  fancy  of  his 
readers  with  a  cloying  success,  or  scare  them  with 
shocks  of  tragedy.  And  so,  on  the  whole,  'tis  a 
juggle.  We  are  cheated  into  laughter  or  wonder 
by  feats  which  only  oddly  combine  acts  that  we  do 
every  day.  There  is  no  new  element,  no  power, 
no  furtherance.  'T  is  only  confectionery,  not  the 
raising  of  new  corn.  Great  is  the  poverty  of  their 
inventions.  She  was  beautiful,  and  he  fell  in  love. 
Money,  and  killing,  and  the  Wandering  Jew,  and 
persuading  the  lover  that  his  mistress  is  betrothed  to 
another,  —  these  are  the  main-springs :  new  names, 
but  no  new  qualities  in  the  men  and  women.  Hence 
the  vain  endeavor  to  keep  any  bit  of  this  fairy  gold, 
which  has  rolled  like  a  brook  through  our  hands.  A 
thousand  thoughts  awoke  ;  great  rainbows  seemed 
to  span  the  sky,  — •  a  morning  among  the  moun 
tains  ;  — •  but  we  close  the  book,  and  not  a  ray  re 
mains  in  the  memory  of  evening.  But  this  passion 


194  BOOKS. 

for  romance,  and  this  disappointment,  show  how 
much  we  need  real  elevations  and  pure  poetry  :  that 
which  shall  show  us,  in  morning  and  night,  in  stars 
and  mountains,  and  in  all  the  plight  and  circum 
stance  of  men,  the  analogons  of  our  own  thoughts, 
and  a  like  impression  made  by  a  just  book  and  by 
the  face  of  Nature. 

If  our  times  are  sterile  in  genius,  we  must  cheer 
us  with  books  of  rich  and  believing  men  who  had 
atmosphere  and  amplitude  about  them.  Every 
good  fable,  every  mythology,  every  biography  from 
a  religious  age,  every  passage  of  love,  and  even 
philosophy  and  science,  when  they  proceed  from  an 
intellectual  integrity,  and  are  not  detached  and 
critical,  have  the  imaginative  element.  The  Greek 
fables,  the  Persian  history  (Firdusi),  the  "Young 
er  Edda  "  of  the  Scandinavians,  the  u  Chronicle  of 
the  Cid,"  the  poem  of  Dante,  the  Sonnets  of  Mi 
chel  Angelo,  the  English  drama  of  Shakespeare, 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Ford,  and  even  the 
prose  of  Bacon  and  Milton,  —  in  our  time,  the 
Ode  of  Wordsworth,  and  the  poems  and  the  prose 
of  Goethe,  have  this  enlargement,  and  inspire  hope 
and  generous  attempts. 

There  is  no  room  left,  —  and  yet  I  might  as  well 
not  have  begun  as  to  leave  out  a  class  of  books 
which  are  the  best :  I  mean  the  Bibles  of  the 
world,  or  the  sacred  books  of  each  nation,  which 
express  for  each  the  supreme  result  of  their  expe- 


BOOKS.  195 

rience.  After  the  Hebrew  and  Greek  Scriptures, 
which  constitute  the  sacred  books  of  Christendom, 
these  are,  the  Desatir  of  the  Persians,  and  the  Zo- 
roastrian  Oracles  ;  the  Vedas  and  Laws  of  Menu ; 
the  Upanishads,  the  Vishnu  Purana,  the  Bhagvat 
Geeta,  of  the  Hindoos  ;  the  books  of  the  Buddhists  ; 
the  "  Chinese  Classic,"  of  four  books,  containing  the 
wisdom  of  Confucius  and  Mencius.  Also  such  oth 
er  books  as  have  acquired  a  semi-canonical  authori 
ty  in  the  world,  as  expressing  the  highest  sentiment 
and  hope  of  nations.  Such  are  the  u  Hermes 
Trismegistus,"  pretending  to  be  Egyptian  remains ; 
the  "  Sentences  "  of  Epictetus  ;  of  Marcus  Anto 
ninus  ;  the  "Vishnu  Sarma  "  of  the  Hindoos;  the 
"Gulistan"  of  Saadi ;  the  "Imitation  of  Christ,'* 
of  Thomas  a  Kempis ;  and  the  "  Thoughts "  of 
Pascal. 

All  these  books  are  the  majestic  expressions  of 
the  universal  conscience,  and  are  more  to  our  daily 
purpose  than  this  year's  almanac  or  this  day's  news 
paper.  But  they  are  for  the  closet,  and  to  'be  read 
on  the  bended  knee.  Their  communications  are 
not  to  be  given  or  taken  with  the  lips  and  the  end 
of  the  tongue,  but  out  of  the  glow  of  the  cheek, 
and  with  the  throbbing  heart.  Friendship  should 
give  and  take,  solitude  and  time  brood  and  ripen, 
heroes  absorb  and  enact  them.  They  are  not  to  be 
held  by  letters  printed  on  a  page,  but  are  living 
characters  translatable  into  every  tongue  and  form 


196  BOOKS. 

of  life.  I  read  them  on  lichens  and  bark ;  I 
watch  them  on  waves  on  the  beach  ;  they  fly  in 
birds,  they  creep  in  worms  ;  I  detect  them  in  laugh 
ter  and  blushes  and  eye-sparkles  of  men  and  wo 
men.  These  are  Scriptures  which  the  missionary 
might  well  carry  over  prairie,  desert,  and  ocean,  to 
Siberia,  Japan,  Timbuctoo.  Yet  he  will  find  that 
the  spirit  which  is  in  them  journeys  faster  than 
he,  and  greets  him  on  his  arrival,  —  was  there 
already  long  before  him.  The  missionary  must  be 
carried  by  it,  and  find  it  there,  or  he  goes  in  vain. 
Is  there  any  geography  in  these  things  ?  We  call 
them  Asiatic,  we  call  them  primeval ;  but  perhaps 
that  is  only  optical ;  for  Nature  is  always  equal  to 
herself,  and  there  are  as  good  eyes  and  ears  now 
in  the  planet  as  ever  were.  Only  these  ejacu 
lations  of  the  soul  are  uttered  one  or  a  few  at  a 
time,  at  long  intervals,  and  it  takes  millenniums  to 
make  a  Bible. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  books  which  the  old  and 
the  later  times  have  yielded  us,  which  will  reward 
the  time  spent  on  them.  In  comparing  the  num 
ber  of  good  books  with  the  shortness  of  life,  many 
might  well  be  read  by  proxy,  if  we  had  good  prox 
ies  ;  and  it  would  be  well  for  sincere  young  men  to 
borrow  a  hint  from  the  French  Institute  and  the 
British  Association,  and,  as  they  divide  the  whole 
body  into  sections,  each  of  which  sits  upon  and  re 
ports  of  certain  matters  confided  to  it,  so  let  each 


BOOKS.  197 

scholar  associate  himself  to  such  persons  as  he  can 
rely  on,  in  a  literary  club,  in  which  each  shall  un 
dertake  a  single  work  or  series  for  which  he  is  qual 
ified.  For  example,  how  attractive  is  the  whole 
literature  of  the  "  Roman  de  la  Rose,"  the  "  Fabli 
aux,"  and  the  gaie  science  of  the  French  Trouba 
dours  !  Yet  who  in  Boston  has  time  for  that  ? 
But  one  of  our  company  shall  undertake  it,  shall 
study  and  master  it,  and  shall  report  on  it,  as  un 
der  oath ;  shall  give  us  the  sincere  result,  as  it 
lies  in  his  mind,  adding  nothing,  keeping  nothing 
back.  Another  member,  meantime,  shall  as  hon 
estly  search,  sift,  and  as  truly  report,  on  British  my- 
ihology,  the  Round  Table,  the  histories  of  Brut, 
Merlin,  and  Welsh  poetry;  a  third  on  the  Saxon 
Chronicles,  Robert  of  Gloucester,  and  William  of 
Malmesbury  ;  a  fourth,  on  Mysteries,  Early  Drama, 
"  Gesta  Romanorum,"  Collier,  and  Dyce,  and  the 
Camden  Society.  Each  shall  give  us  his  grains  of 
gold,  after  the  washing ;  and  every  other  shall  then 
decide  whether  this  is  a  book  indispensable  to  him 
also. 


CIUBS. 


J»  a  A  it  v 

ft US IT V  op 
CLUBS. 


WE  are  delicate  machines,  and  require  nice  treat 
ment  to  get  from  us  the  maximum  of  power  and 
pleasure.  We  need  tonics,  hut  must  have  those  that 
cost  little  or  no  reaction.  The  flame  of  life  burns 
too  fast  in  pure  oxygen,  and  nature  has  tempered 
the  air  with  nitrogen.  So  thought  is  the  native  air 
of  the  mind,  yet  pure  it  is  a  poison  to  our  mixed 
constitution,  and  soon  burns  up  the  bone-house 
of  man,  unless  tempered  with  affection  and  coarse 
practice  in  the  material  world.  Varied  foods,  cli 
mates,  beautiful  objects,  —  and  especially  the  alterna 
tion  of  a  large  variety  of  objects,  —  are  the  necessity 
of  this  exigent  system  of  ours.  But  our  tonics, 
our  luxuries,  are  force-pumps  which  exhaust  the 
strength  they  pretend  to  supply ;  and  of  all  the 
cordials  known  to  us,  the  best,  safest,  and  most 
exhilarating,  with  the  least  harm,  is  society ;  and 
every  healthy  and  efficient  mind  passes  a  large 
part  of  life  in  the  company  most  easy  to  him. 

We  seek  society  with  very  different  aims,  and 
the  staple  of  conversation  is  widely  unlike  in  its 
circles.  Sometimes  it  is  facts,  —  running  from  those 


202  CLUBS. 

of  daily  necessity  to  the  last  results  of  science,  —  and 
has  all  degrees  of  importance  ;  sometimes  it  is  love, 
and  makes  the  balm  of  our  early  and  of  our  latest 
days  ;  sometimes  it  is  thought,  as  from  a  person  who 
is  a  mind  only ;  sometimes  a  singing,  as  if  the  heart 
poured  out  all  like  a  bird  ;  sometimes  experience. 
With  some  men  it  is  a  debate ;  at  the  approach  of 
a  dispute  they  neigh  like  horses.  Unless  there  be 
j'an  argument,  they  think  nothing  is  doing.  Some 
talkers  excel  in  the  precision  with  which  they  for 
mulate  their  thoughts,  so  that  you  get  from  them 
somewhat  to  remember  ;  others  lay  criticism  asleep 
by  a  charm.  Especially  women  use  words  that 
are  not  words,  —  as  steps  in  a  dance  are  not  steps, 
—  but  reproduce  the  genius  of  that  they  speak  of; 
as  the  sound  of  some  bells  makes  us  think  of  the 
bell  merely,  whilst  the  church-chimes  in  the  dis 
tance  bring  the  church  and  its  serious  memories 
before  us.  Opinions  are  accidental  in  people,  — 
have  a  poverty-stricken  air.  A  man  valuing  himself 
as  the  organ  of  this  or  that  dogma  is  a  dull  com 
panion  enough  ;  but  opinion  native  to  the  speaker 
is  sweet  and  refreshing,  and  inseparable  from  his 
image.  Neither  do  we  by  any  means  always  go  to 
people  for  conversation.  How  often  to  say  noth 
ing,  —  and  yet  must  go ;  as  a  child  will  long  for 
his  companions,  but  among  them  plays  by  him 
self.  'T  is  only  presence  which  we  want.  But  one 
thing  is  certain,  —  at  some  rate,  intercourse  we 


CLUBS.  203 

must  have.  The  experience  of  retired  men  is  pos 
itive,  —  that  we  lose  our  days  and  are  barren  of 
thought  for  want  of  some  person  to  talk  with.  The 
understanding  can  no  more  empty  itself  by  its  own 
action  than  can  a  deal  box. 

The  clergyman  walks  from  house  to  house  all  day 
all  the  year  to  give  people  the  comfort  of  good  talk. 
The  physician  helps  them  mainly  in  the  same  way, 
by  healthy  talk  giving  a  right  tone  to  the  patient's 
mind.  The  dinner,  the  walk,  the  fireside,  all  have 
that  for  their  main  end. 

See  how  Nature  has  secured  the  communication 
of  knowledge.  'T  is  certain  that  money  does  not 
more  burn  in  a  boy's  pocket  than  a  piece  of  news 
burns  in  our  memory  until  we  can  tell  it.  And,  in 
higher  activity  of  mind,  every  new  perception  is 
attended  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  and  the  impart 
ing  of  it  to  others  is  also  attended  with  pleasure. 
Thought  is  the  child  of  the  intellect,  and  this  child 
is  conceived  with  joy  and  born  with  joy. 

Conversation  is  the  laboratory  and  workshop  of 
the  student.  The  affection  or  sympathy  helps. 
The  wish  to  speak  to  the  want  of  another  mind  as 
sists  to  clear  your  own.  A  certain  truth  possesses 
us,  which  we  in  all  ways  strive  to  utter.  Every 
time  we  say  a  thing  in  conversation,  we  get  a  me 
chanical  advantage  in  detaching  it  well  and  deliv- 
erly.  I  prize  the  mechanics  of  conversation.  'T  is 
pulley  and  lever  and  screw.  To  fairly  disengage 


204  CLUBS. 

the  mass,  and  send  it  jingling  down,  a  good  boul 
der,  —  a  block  of  quartz  and  gold,  to  be  worked  up 
at  leisure  in  the  useful  arts  of  life,  —  is  a  wonder 
ful  relief. 

What  are  the  best  days  in  memory  ?  Those 
in  which  we  met  a  companion  who  was  truly  such. 
How  sweet  those  hours  when  the  day  was  not 
long  enough  to  communicate  and  compare  our  in 
tellectual  jewels,  —  the  favorite  passages  of  each 
book,  the  proud  anecdotes  of  our  heroes,  the  deli 
cious  verses  we  had  hoarded  !  What  a  motive  had 
then  our  solitary  days !  How  the  countenance  of 
our  friend  still  left  some  light  after  he  had  gone ! 
We  remember  the  time  when  the  best  gift  we  could 
ask  of  fortune  was  to  fall  in  with  a  valuable  com 
panion  in  a  ship's  cabin,  or  on  a  long  journey  in 
the  old  stage-coach,  where,  each  passenger  being 
forced  to  know  every  other,  and  other  employ 
ments  being  out  of  question,,  conversation  naturally 
flowed,  people  became  rapidly  acquainted,  and,  if 
well  adapted,  more  intimate  in  a  day  than  if  they 
had  been  neighbors  for  years. 

In  youth,  in  the  fury  of  curiosity  and  acquisition, 
the  day  is  too  short  for  books  and  the  crowd  of 
thoughts,  and  we  are  impatient  of  interruption. 
Later,  when  books  tire,  thought  has  a  more  languid 
flow;  and  the  days  come  when  we  are  alarmed,  and 
say  there  are  no  thoughts.  '  What  a  barren-witted 
pate  is  mine  ! '  the  student  says  ;  <  I  will  go  and  learn 


CLUBS.  205 

whether  I  have  lost  my  reason.'  He  seeks  intelli 
gent  persons,  whether  more  wise  or  less  wise  than 
he,  who  give  him  provocation,  and  at  once  and 
easily  the  old  motion  begins  in  his  brain  :  thoughts, 
fancies,  humors  flow  :  the  cloud  lifts ;  the  horizon 
broadens ;  and  the  infinite  opulence  of  things  is 
again  shown  him.  But  the  right  conditions  must 
be  observed.  Mainly  he  must  have  leave  to  be 
himself.  Sancho  Panza  blessed  the  man  who 
invented  sleep.  So  I  prize  the  good  invention 
whereby  everybody  is  provided  with  somebody  who 
is  glad  to  see  him. 

If  men  are  less  when  together  than  they  are 
alone,  they  are  also  in  some  respects  enlarged. 
They  kindle  each  other ;  and  such  is  the  power  of 
suggestion,  that  each  sprightly  story  calls  out  more ; 
and  sometimes  a  fact  that  had  long  slept  in  the 
recesses  of  memory  hears  the  voice,  is  welcomed  to 
daylight,  and  proves  of  rare  value.  Every  metaphy 
sician  must  have  observed,  not  only  that  no  thought 
is  alone,  but  that  thoughts  commonly  go  in  pairs ; 
though  the  related  thoughts  first  appeared  in  his 
mind  at  long  distances  of  time.  Things  are  in 
pairs :  a  natural  fact  has  only  half  its  value,  until 
a  fact  in  moral  nature,  its  counterpart,  is  stated. 
Then  they  confirm  and  adorn  each  other ;  a  story 
is  matched  by  another  story.  And  that  may  be 
the  reason  why,  when  a  gentleman  has  told  a  good 
thing,  he  immediately  tells  it  again. 


206  CLUBS. 

Nothing  seems  so  cheap  as  the  benefit  of  conver 
sation  :  nothing  is  more  rare.  'T  is  wonderful  how 
you  are  balked  and  baffled.  There  is  plenty  of  in 
telligence,  reading,  curiosity  ;  but  serious,  happy  dis 
course,  avoiding  personalities,  dealing  with  results, 
is  rare :  and  I  seldom  meet  with  a  reading  and 
thoughtful  person  but  ho  tells  me,  as  if  it  were  his 
exceptional  mishap,  that  he  has  no  companion. 

Suppose  such  a  one  to  go  out  exploring  different 
circles  in  search  of  this  wise  and  genial  counter 
part,  —  he  might  inquire  far  and  wide.  Conversa 
tion  in  society  is  found  to  be  on  a  platform  so 
low  as  to  exclude  science,  the  saint,  and  the  poet. 
Amidst  all  the  gay  banter,  sentiment  cannot  profane 
itself  and  venture  out.  The  reply  of  old  Isocra- 
tes  comes  so  often  to  mind,  —  u  The  things  which 
are  now  seasonable  I  cannot  say  ;  and  for  the  things 
which  I  can  say  it  is  not  now  the  time."  Besides, 
who  can  resist  the  charm  of  talent  ?  The  lover  of 
letters  loves  power  too.  Among  the  men  of  wit 
and  learning,  he  could  not  withhold  his  homage 
from  the  gayety,  grasp  of  memory,  luck,  splendor, 
and  speed  ;  such  exploits  of  discourse,  such  feats  of 
society  !  What  new  powers,  what  mines  of  wealth  ! 
But  when  he  came  home,  his  brave  sequins  were 
dry  leaves.  He  found  either  that  the  fact  they 
had  thus  dizened  and  adorned  was  of  no  value,  or 
that  he  already  knew  all  and  more  than  all  they  had 
told  him.  He  could  not  find  that  he  was  helped  by 


CLUBS.  207 

so  much  as  one  thought  or  principle,  one  solid 
fact,  one  commanding  impulse :  great  was  the  daz- 
zle,  but  the  gain  was  small.  He  uses  his  occa 
sions;  he  seeks  the  company  of  those  who  have 
convivial  talent.  But  the  moment  they  meet,  to 
be  sure  they  begin  to  be  something  else  than  they 
were  ;  they  play  pranks,  dance  jigs,  run  on 
each  other,  pun,  tell  stories,  try  many  fantastic 
tricks,  under  some  superstition  that  there  must  be 
excitement  and  elevation  ;  —  and  they  kill  conver 
sation  at  once.  I  know  well  the  rusticity  of  the 
shy  hermit.  No  doubt  he  does  not  make  allowance 
enough  for  men  of  more  active  blood  and  habit.  But 

O 

it  is  only  on  natural  ground  that  conversation  can  be 
rich.  It  must  not  begin  with  uproar  and  violence. 
Let  it  keep  the  ground,  let  it  feel  the  connection  with 
the  battery.  Men  must  not  be  off  their  centres. 

Some  men  love  only  to  talk  where  they  are  mas 
ters.  They  like  to  go  to  school-girls,  or  to  boys, 
or  into  the  shops  where  the  sauntering  people  glad 
ly  lend  an  ear  to  any  one.  On  these  terms  they 
give  information,  and  please  themselves  by  sallies 
and  chat  which  are  admired  by  the  idlers ;  and  the 
talker  is  at  his  ease  and  jolly,  for  he  can  walk  out 
without  ceremony  when  he  pleases.  They  go  rare 
ly  to  their  equals,  and  then  as  for  their  own  con 
venience  simply,  making  too  much  haste  to  intro 
duce  and  impart  their  new  whim  or  discovery ; 
listen  badly,  or  do  not  listen  to  the  comment  or  to 


208  CLUBS. 

the  thought  by  which  the  company  strive  to  repay 
them  ;  rather,  as  soon  as  their  own  speech  is  done, 
they  take  their  hats.  Then  there  are  the  gladiators, 
to  whom  it  is  always  a  battle  ;  't  is  no  matter  011 
which  side,  they  fight  for  victory  ;  then  the  heady 
men,  the  egotists,  the  monotones,  the  ste riles,  and 
the  impracticables. 

It  does  not  help  that  you  find  as  good  or  a  better 
man  than  yourself,  if  he  is  not  timed  and  fitted  to 
you.  The  greatest  sufferers  are  often  those  who  have 
the  most  to  say,  —  men  of  a  delicate  sympathy, 
who  are  dumb  in  mixed  company.  Able  people, 
if  they  do  not  know  how  to  make  allowance  for 
them,  paralyze  them.  One  of  those  conceited  prigs 
who  value  nature  only  as  it  feeds  and  exhibits  them 
is  equally  a  pest  with  the  roysterers.  There  must 
be  large  reception  as  well  as  giving.  How  delight 
ful  after  these  disturbers  is  the  radiant,  playful  wit 
of — one  whom  I  need  not  name,  —  for  in  every 
society  there  is  his  representative.  Good-nature  is 
stronger  than  tomahawks.  His  conversation  is  all 
pictures :  he  can  reproduce  whatever  he  has  seen ; 
he  tells  the  best  story  in  the  county,  and  is  of 
such  genial  temper  that  he  disposes  all  others  irre 
sistibly  to  good-humor  and  discourse.  Diderot  said 
of  the  Abbe  Galiani :  "  He  was  a  treasure  in  rainy 
days ;  and  if  the  cabinet-makers  made  such  things, 
everybody  would  have  one  in  the  country." 
/  One  lesson  we  learn  early,  —  that,  in  spite  of 


CLUBS.  209 

/seeming  difference,  men  are  all  of  one  pattern.  We 
readily  assume  this  with  our  mates,  and  are  disap 
pointed  and  angry  if  we  find  that  we  are  premature, 
and  that  their  watches  are  slower  than  ours.  In  fact,  \ 
the  only  sin  which  we  never  forgive  in  each  other  is  I 
difference  of  opinion.  We  know  beforehand  that 
yonder  man  must  think  as  we  do.  Has  he  not  two 
hands,  —  two  feet,  —  hair  and  nails  ?  Does  he  not 
eat,  —  bleed,  —  laugh,  —  cry?  His  dissent  from  me 
is  the  veriest  affectation.  This  conclusion  is  at  once 
the  logic  of  persecution  and  of  love.  And  the 
ground  of  our  indignation  is  our  conviction  that  his 
dissent  is  some  wilfulness  he  practises  on  himself. 
He  checks  the  flow  of  his  opinion,  as  the  cross  cow 
holds  up  her  milk.  Yes,  and  we  look  into  his  eye, 
and  see  that  he  knows  it  and  hides  his  eye  from 
ours. 

But  to  come  a  little  nearer  to  my  mark,  I  am  to 
say  that  there  may  easily  be  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
finding  the  pure  article  we  are  in  search  of;  but 
when  we  find  it,  it  is  worth  the  pursuit,  for  beside  its 
comfort  as  medicine  and  cordial,  once  in  the  right 
company,  new  and  vast  values  do  not  fail  to  appear. 
All  that  man  can  do  for  man  is  to  be  found  in  that 
market.  There  are  great  prizes  in  this  game.  Our 
fortunes  in  the  world  are  as  our  mental  equipment 
for  this  competition  is.  Yonder  is  a  man  who  can 
answer  the  questions  which  I  cannot.  Is  it  so  ? 
Hence  comes  to  me  boundless  curiosity  to  know  his 


210  CLUBS. 

experiences  and  his  wit.  Hence  competition  for 
the  stakes  dearest  to  man.  What  is  a  match  at 
whist,  or  draughts,  or  billiards,  or  chess,  to  a  match 
of  mother-wit,  of  knowledge,  and  of  resources  ? 
However  courteously  we  conceal  it,  it  is  social  rank 
and  spiritual  power  that  are  compared ;  whether  in 
the  parlor,  the  courts,  the  caucus,  the  senate,  or  the 
chamber  of  science,  —  which  are  only  less  or  larger 
theatres  for  this  competition. 

He  that  can  define,  he  that  can  answer  a 
question  so  as  to  admit  of  no  further  answer,  is  the 
best  man.  This  was  the  meaning  of  the  story  of 
the  Sphinx.  In  the  old  time  conundrums  were  sent 
from  king  to  king  by  ambassadors.  The  seven  wise 
masters  at  Periander's  banquet  spent  their  time  in 
answering  them.  The  life  of  Socrates  is  a  pro 
pounding  and  a  solution  of  these.  So,  in  the  hagi- 
ology  of  each  nation,  the  lawgiver  was  in  each  case 
some  man  of  eloquent  tongue,  whose  sympathy 
brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  extremes  of  soci^ 
ety.  Jesus,  Menu,  the  first  Buddhist,  Mahomet, 
Zertusht,  Pythagoras,  are  examples. 

Jesus  spent  his  life  in  discoursing  with  humble 
people  on  life  and  duty,  in  giving  wise  answers, 
showing  that  he  saw  at  a  larger  angle  of  vision, 
and  at  least  silencing  those  who  were  not  generous 
enough  to  accept  his  thoughts..  Luther  spent  his 
life  so ;  and  it  is  not  his  theologic  works,  —  his 
u  Commentary  on  the  Galatians,"  and  the  rest,  but 


CLUBS.  211 

his  "Table-Talk,"  which  is  still  read  by  men.  Dr. 
Johnson  was  a  man  of  no  profound  mind,  —  full  of 
English  limitations,  English  politics,  English  Church, 
Oxford  philosophy ;  yet  having  a  large  heart,  mother- 
wit,  and  good  sense,  which  impatiently  overleaped 
his  customary  bounds,  his  conversation  as  reported 
by  Boswell  has  a  lasting  charm.  Conversation  is 
the  vent  of  character  as  well  as  of  thought ;  and 
Dr.  Johnson  impresses  his  company,  not  only  by 
the  point  of  the  remark,  but  also,  when  the  point 
fails,  because  he  makes  it.  His  obvious  religion  or 
superstition,  his  deep  wish  that  they  should  think 
so  or  so,  weighs  with  them, —  so  rare  is  depth  of 
feeling,  or  a  constitutional  value  for  a  thought  or 
opinion,  among  the  light-minded  men  and  women 
who  make  up  society ;  and  though  they  know  that" 
there  is  in  the  speaker  a  degree  of  shortcoming, 
of  insincerity,  and  of  talking  for  victory,  yet  the 
existence  of  character,  and  habitual  reverence,  for 
principles  over  talent  or  learning,  is  felt  by  the 
frivolous. 

One  of  the  best  records  of  "the  great  German 
master,  who  towered  over  all  his  contemporaries  ia 
the  first  thirty  years  of  this  century,  is  his  Con 
versations  as  recorded  by  Eckermann ;  and  tho 
44  Table-Talk"  of  Coleridge  is  one  of  the  best  re' 
mains  of  his  genius. 

In  the  Norse  legends,  the  gods  of  Valhalla,  when 
they  meet  the  Jotuns,  converse  on  the  perilous  terms 


212  CLUBS. 

that  he  who  cannot  answer  the  other's  questions  for 
feits  his  own  life.  Odin  comes  to  the  threshold  of 
the  Jotun  Waftrhudnir  in  disguise,  calling  himself 
Gangrader ;  is  invited  into  the  hall,  and  told  that  he 
cannot  go  out  thence  unless  he  can  answer  every 
question  Waftrhudnir  shall  put.  Waftrhudnir  asks 
him  the  name  of  the  god  of  the  sun,  and  of  the 
god  who  brings  the  night ;  what  river  separates  the 
dwellings  of  the  sons  of  the  giants  from  those  of 
the  gods  ;  what  plain  lies  between  the  gods  and 
Surtur,  their  adversary,  etc.  ;  all  which  the  dis 
guised  Odin  answers  satisfactorily.  Then  it  is  his 
turn  to  interrogate,  and  he  is  answered  well  for  a 
time  by  the  Jotun.  At  last  he  puts  a  question 
which  none  but  himself  could  answer :  u  What 
did  Odin  whisper  in  the  ear  of  his  son  Balder,  when 
Balder  mounted  the  funeral  pile  ?  "  The  startled 
giant  replies  :  "  None  of  the  gods  knows  what  in 
the  old  time  THOU  saidst  in  the  ear  of  thy  son :  with 
death  on  my  mouth  have  I  spoken  the  fate-words 
of  the  generation  of  the  J2sir ;  with  Odin  con 
tended  I  in  wise  words.  Thou  must  ever  the  wis 
est  be." 

And  still  the  gods  and  giants  are  so  known,  and 
still  they  play  the  same  game  in  all  the  million 
mansions  of  heaven  and  of  earth  ;  at  all  tables, 
clubs,  and  tete-d-tetes,  the  lawyers  in  the  court 
house,  the  senators  in  the  capitol,  the  doctors  in  the 
academy,  the  wits  in  the  hotel.  Best  is  he  who 


CLUBS.  213 

gives  an  answer  that  cannot  be   answered  again. 

Omnis  definitio  periculosa  est,  and  only  wit  has  the 
secret.  The  same  thing  took  place  when  Leibnitz 
came  to  visit  Newton ;  when  Schiller  came  to 
Goethe  ;  when  France,  in  the  person  of  Madame 
de  Stael,  visited  Goethe  and  Schiller ;  when  Hegel 
was  the  guest  of  Victor  Cousin  in  Paris ;  when 
Linnaeus  was  the  guest  of  Jussieu.  It  happened 
many  years  ago,  that  an  American  chemist  carried 
a  letter  of  introduction  to  Dr.  Dalton  of  Manches 
ter,  England,  the  author  of  the  theory  of  atomic 
proportions,  and  was  coolly  enough  received  by  the 
Doctor  in  the  laboratory  where  he  was  engaged. 
Only  Dr.  Dalton  scratched  a  formula  on  a  scrap 
of  paper  and  pushed  it  towards  the  guest,  —  "  Had 
he  seen  that  ?  "  The  visitor  scratched  on  another 
paper  a  formula  describing  some  results  of  his  own 
with  sulphuric  acid,  and  pushed  it  across  the  table, 

-  "  Had  he  seen  that  ?  "  The  attention  of  the  Eng 
lish  chemist  was  instantly  arrested,  and  they  be 
came  rapidly  acquainted.  To  answer  a  question  so 
as  to  admit  of  no  reply,  is  the  test  of  a  man,  —  to 
touch  bottom  every  time.  Hyde,  Earl  of  Roches 
ter,  asked  Lord-Keeper  Guilford,  "  Do  you  not 
think  I  could  understand  any  business  in  England 
in  a  month  ?  "  u  Yes,  my  Lord,"  replied  the  other, 
"  but  I  think  you  would  understand  it  better  in  two 
months."  When  Edward  I.  claimed  to  be  ac 
knowledged  by  the  Scotch  (1292)  as  lord  para- 


214  CLUBS. 

mount,  the  nobles  of  Scotland  replied,  "  No  answer 
can  be  made  while  the  throne  is  vacant."  When 
Henry  III.  (1217)  plead  duress  against  his  people 
demanding  confirmation  and  execution  of  the  Char 
ter,  the  reply  was :  "  If  this  were  admitted,  civil 
wars  could  never  close  but  by  the  extirpation  of 
one  of  the  contending  parties." 

What  can  you  do  with  one  of  these  sharp  respon 
dents  ?  What  can  you  do  with  an  eloquent  man  ? 
No  rules  of  debate,  no  contempt  of  court,  no  exclu 
sions,  no  gag-laws  can  be  contrived,  that  his  first  syl 
lable  will  not  set  aside  or  overstep  and  annul.  You 
can  shut  out  the  light,  it  may  be  ;  but  can  you  shut 
out  gravitation  ?  You  may  condemn  his  book  ;  but 
can  you  fight  against  his  thought  ?  That  is  always 
too  nimble  for  you,  anticipates  you,  and  breaks  out 
victorious  in  some  other  quarter.  'Can  you  stop  the 
motions  of  good  sense  ?  What  can  you  do  with 
Beaumarchais,  who  converts  the  censor  whom  the 
court  has  appointed  to  stifle  his  play  into  an  ardent 
advocate  ?  The  court  appoints  another  censor,  who 
sl'flll  crush  it  this  time.  Beaumarchais  persuades 
mm  to  defend  it.  The  court  successively  appoints 
three  more  severe  inquisitors  ;  Beaumarchais  con 
verts  them  all  into  triumphant  vindicators  of  the 
play  which  is  to  bring  in  the  Revolution.  Who 
can  stop  the  mouth  of  Luther,  —  of  Newton  ?  —  of 
Franklin,  —  of  Mirabeau,  —  of  Talleyrand  ? 

These  masters  can  make  good  their  own  place, 


CLUBS.  215 

and  need  no  patron.  Every  variety  of  gift  — 
science,  religion,  politics,  letters,  art,  prudence, 
war,  or  love  —  has  its  vent  and  exchange  in  con 
versation.  Conversation  is  the  Olympic  games 
whither  every  superior  gift  resorts  to  assert  and 
approve  itself,  —  and,  of  course,  the  inspirations  of 
powerful  and  public  men,  with  the  rest.  But  it  is 
not  this  class,  —  whom  the  splendor  of  their  accom 
plishment  almost  inevitably  guides  into  the  vortex 
of  ambition,  makes  them  chancellors  and  command 
ers  of  council  and  of  action,  and  makes  them  at 
last  fatalists,  —  not  these  whom  we  now  consider. 
We  consider  those  who  are  interested  in  thoughts, 
their  own  and  other  men's,  and  who  delight  in  com 
paring  them,  who  think  it  the  highest  compliment 
they  can  pay  a  man,  to  deal  with  him  as  an  intellect, 
to  expose  to  him  the  grand  and  cheerful  secrets 
perhaps  never  opened  to  their  daily  companions, 
to  share  with  him  the  sphere  of  freedom  and  the 
simplicity  of  truth. 

But  the  best  conversation  is  rare.  Society  seems 
to  have  agreed  to  treat  fictions  as  realities,  and 
realities  as  fictions  ;  and  the  simple  lover  of  truth, 
especially  if  on  very  high  grounds,  — as  a  religious 
or  intellectual  seeker,  —  finds  himself  a  stranger 
and  alien. 

It  is  possible  that  the  best  conversation  is  between 
two  persons  who  can  talk  only  to  each  other.  Even 
Montesquieu  confessed  that,  in  conversation,  if  he 


216  CLUBS. 

perceived  he  was  listened  to  by  a  third  person, 
it  seemed  to  him  from  that  moment  the  whole 
question  vanished  from  his  mind.  I  have  known 
persons  of  rare  ability  who  were  heavy  company  to 
good,  social  men  w,ho  knew  well  enough  how  to 
draw  out  others  of  retiring  habit ;  and,  moreover, 
were  heavy  to  intellectual  men  who  ought  to  have 
known  them.  And  does  it  never  occur  that  we, 
perhaps,  live  with  people  too  superior  to  be  seen, 
—  as  there  are  musical  notes  too  high  for  the  scale 
of  most  ears  ?  There  are  men  who  are  great  only 
to  one  or  two  companions  of  more  opportunity,  or 
more  adapted. 

It  was  to  meet  these  wants  that  in  all  civil  nations 
attempts  have  been  made  to  organize  conversation 
by  bringing  together  cultivated  people  under  the 
most  favorable  conditions.  'T  is  certain  there  was 
liberal  and  refined  conversation  in  the  Greek,  in 
the  Roman,  and  in  the  Middle  Age.  There  was 
a  time  when  in  France  a  revolution  occurred  in 
domestic  architecture  ;  when  the  houses  of  the 
nobility,  which,  up  to  that  time,  had  been  con 
structed  on  feudal  necessities,  in  a  hollow  square,  — 
the  ground-floor  being  resigned  to  offices  and  stables, 
and  the  floors  above  to  rooms  of  state  and  to  lodg 
ing-rooms, —  were  rebuilt  with  new  purpose.  It  was 
the  Marchioness  of  Rambouillet  who  first  got  the 
horses  out  of  and  the  scholars  into  the  palaces,  hav 
ing  constructed  her  hdtel  with  a  view  to  society,  with 


CLUBS.  217 

superb  suites  of  drawing-rooms  on  the  same  floor, 
and  broke  through  the  morgue  of  etiquette  by  invit 
ing  to  her  house  men  of  wit  and  learning  as  well  as 
men  of  rank,  and  piqued  the  emulation  of  Cardinal 
Richelieu  to  rival  assemblies,  and  so  to  the  found 
ing  of  the  French  Academy.  The  history  of  the 
Hotel  Rambouillet  and  its  brilliant  circles  makes 
an  important  date  in  French  civilization.  And  a 
history  of  clubs  from  early  antiquity,  tracing  the 
efforts  to  secure  liberal  and  refined  conversation, 
through  the  Greek  and  Roman  to  the  Middle  Age, 
and  thence  down  through  French,  English,  and 
German  memoirs,  tracing  the  clubs  and  coteries  in 
each  country,  would  be  an  important  chapter  in 
history.  We  know  well  the  Mermaid  Club,  in 
London,  of  Shakespeare,  Ben  Jonson,  Chapman, 
Herrick,  Selden,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher ;  its 
''Rules"  are  preserved,  and  many  allusions  to  their 
suppers  are  found  in  Jonson,  Herrick,  and  in  Au 
brey.  Anthony  Wood  has  many  details  of  Harring 
ton's  Club.  Dr.  Bentley's  Club  held  Newton, 
Wren,  Evelyn,  and  Locke  ;  and  we  owe  to  Boswell 
our  knowledge  of  the  club  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Gold 
smith,  Burke,  Gibbon,  Reynolds,  Garrick,  Beau- 
clerk,  and  Percy.  And  we  have  records  of  the 
brilliant  society  that  Edinburgh  boasted  in  the  first 
decade  of  this  century.  Such  societies  are  possible 
only  in  great  cities,  and  are  the  compensation  which 
these  can  make  to  their  dwellers  for  depriving  them 


218  CLUBS. 

of  the  free  intercourse  with  Nature.  Every  scholar 
is  surrounded  by  wiser  men  than  he  —  if  they  can 
not  write  as  well.  Cannot  they  meet  and  exchange 

»'  o 

results  to  their  mutual  benefit  and  delight  ?  It  was 
a  pathetic  experience  when  a  genial  and  accom 
plished  person  said  to  me,  looking  from  his  coun 
try  home  to  the  capital  of  New  England,  "  There 
is  a  town  of  two  hundred  thousand  people,  and  not 
a  chair  in  it  for  me."  If  he  were  sure  to  find  at 
No.  2000  Tremont  Street  what  scholars  were  abroad 
after  the  morning  studies  were  ended,  Boston  would 
shine  as  the  New  Jerusalem  to  his  eyes. 
/  Now  this  want  of  adapted  society  is  mutual. 
The  man  of  thought,  the  man  of  letters,  the  man 
of  science,  the  administrator  skilful  in  affairs,  the 
man  of  manners  and  culture,  whom  you  so  much 
wish  to  find,  —  each  of  these  is  wishing  to  be  found. 
Each  wishes  -to  open  his  thought,  his  knowledge, 
his  social  skill  to  the  daylight  in  your  company  and 
affection,  and  to  exchange  his  gifts  for  yours ;  and 
the  first  hint  of  a  select  and  intelligent  company  is 
welcome. 

But  the  club  must  be  self-protecting,  and  obstacles 
arise  at  the  outset.  There  are  people  who  cannot 
well  be  cultivated,  whom  you  must  keep  down  and 
quiet  if  you  can.  There  are  those  who  have  the  in 
stinct  of  a  bat  to  fly  against  any  lighted  candle  and 
put  it  out,  —  marplots  and  contradictors.  There  are 
those  who  go  only  to  talk,  and  those  who  go  only  to 


CLUBS.  219 

hear :  both  are  bad.     A  right  rule  for  a  club  would  v 
be, —  Admit  no  man  whose  presence  excludes  any  1 
one  topic.     It  requires  people  who  are  not  surprised 
and  shocked,  who  do  and  let  do,  and  let  be,  who  ' 
sink  trifles,  and  know  solid  values,  and  who  take  a 
great  deal  for  granted. 

It  is  always  a  practical  difficulty  with  clubs  to 
regulate  the  laws  of  election  so  as  to  exclude  per 
emptorily  every  social  nuisance.  Nobody  wishes 
bad  manners.  We  must  have  loyalty  and  character.  - 
The  poet  Marvell  was  wont  to  say  "  that  he  would 
not  drink  wine  with  any  one  with  whom  he  could 
not  trust  his  life."  But  neither  can  we  afford  to  be 
superfine.  A  man  of  irreproachable  behavior  and 
excellent  sense  preferred  on  his  travels  taking  his 
chance  at  a  hotel  for  company,  to  the  charging 
himself  with  too  many  select  letters  of  introduction. 
He  confessed  he  liked  low  company.  He  said  the 
fact  was  incontestable,  that  the  society  of  gypsies 
was  more  attractive  than  that  of  bishops.  The  girl 
deserts  the  parlor  for  the  kitchen  ;  the  boy,  for  the 
wharf.  Tutors  and  parents  cannot  interest  him  like 
the  uproarious  conversation  he  finds  in  the  market 
or  the  dock.  I  knew  a  scholar,  of  some  experience 
in  camps,  who  said  that  he  liked,  in  a  bar-room,  to 
tell  a  few  coon  stories,  and  put  himself  on  a  good 
footing  with  the  company  ;  then  he  could  be  as  silent 
as  he  chose.  A  scholar  does  not  wish  to  be  always 
pumping  his  brains:  he  wants  gossips.  The  black- 


220  CLUBS. 

coats  are  good  company  only  for  black-coats  ;  but 
•when  the  manufacturers,  merchants,  and  ship-mas 
ters  meet,  see  how  much  they  have  to  say,  and  how 
long  the  conversation  lasts  !  They  have  come  from 
many  zones ;  they  have  traversed  wide  countries ; 
they  know  each  his  own  arts,  and  the  cunning  arti 
sans  of  his  craft ;  they  have  seen  the  best  and  the 
worst  of  men.  Their  knowledge  contradicts  the 
popular  opinion  and  your  own  on  many  points. 
Things  which  you  fancy  wrong  they  know  to  be 
right  and  profitable  ;  things  which  you  reckon 
superstitious  they  know  to  be  true.  They  have 
found  virtue  in  the  strangest  homes ;  and  in  the  rich 
store  of  their  adventures  are  instances  and  examples 
which  you  have  been  seeking  in  vain  for  years,  and 
which  they  suddenly  and  unwittingly  offer  you. 

I  remember  a  social  experiment  in  this  direc 
tion,  wherein  it  appeared  that  each  of  the  members 
fancied  he  was  in  need  of  society,  but  himself 
unpresentable.  On  trial  they  all  found  that  they 
could  be  tolerated  by,  and  could  tolerate,  each 
other.  Nay,  the  tendency  to  extreme  self-respect 
which  hesitated  to  join  in  a  club  was  running  rap 
idly  down  to  abject  admiration  of  each  other,  when 
the  club  was  broken  up  by  new  combinations. 

The  use  of  the  hospitality  of  the  club  hardly 
needs  explanation.  Men  are  unbent  and  social  at 
table  ;  and  I  remember  it  was  explained  to  me,  in 
a  Southern  city,  that  it  was  impossible  to  set  any 


CLUBS.  .     221 

public  charity  on  foot  unless  through  a  tavern  din 
ner.  I  do  not  think  our  metropolitan  chanties 
would  plead  the  same  necessity ;  hut  to  a  club  met 
for  conversation  a  supper  is  a  good  basis,  as  it  dis 
arms  all  parties,  and  puts  pedantry  and  business  to 
the  door.  All  are  in  good  humor  and  at  leisure, 
which  are  the  first  conditions  of  discourse  ;  the  or 
dinary  reserves  are  thrown  off,  experienced  men 
meet  with  the  freedom  of  boys,  and,  sooner  or  later, 
impart  all  that  is  singular  in  their  experience. 

The  hospitalities  of  clubs  are  easily  exaggerated. 
No  doubt  the  suppers  of  wits  and  philosophers  ac 
quire  much  lustre  by  time  and  renown.  Plutarch, 
Xenophon,  and  Plato,  who  have  celebrated  each  a 
banquet  of  their  set,  have  given  us  next  to  no  data 
of  the  viands  ;  and  it  is  to  be  believed  that  an  indif 
ferent  tavern  dinner  in  such  society  was  more  rel 
ished  by  the  convives  than  a  much  better  one  in 
worse  company.  Herrick's  verses  to  Ben  Jonson 
no  doubt  paint  the  fact :  — 

"  When  we  such  clusters  had 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad ; 
And  yet,  each  verse  of  thine 
Outdid  the  meat,  outdid  the  frolic  wine." 

Such  friends  make  the  feast  satisfying ;  and  I  notice 
that  it  was  when  things  went  prosperously,  and  the 
company  was  full  of  honor,  at  the  banquet  of  the 
Cid,  that  "  the  guests  all  were  joyful,  and  agreed  in 
one  thing,  —  that  they  had  not  eaten  better  for 
three  years." 


222  CLUBS. 

I  need  only  hint  the  value  of  the  club  for  bring 
ing  masters  in  their  several  arts  to  compare  and  ex 
pand  their  views,  to  come  to  an  understanding  on 
these  points,  and  so  that  their  united  opinion  shall 
have  its  just  influence  on  public  questions  of  edu 
cation  and  politics.  'T  is  agreed  that  in  the  sec 
tions  of  the  British  Association  more  information  is 
mutually  and  effectually  communicated,  in  a  few 
hours,  than  in  many  months  of  ordinary  corre 
spondence,  and  the  printing  and  transmission  of 
ponderous  reports.  We  know  that  Tliomme  de  leitres 
is  a  little  wary,  and  not  fond  of  giving  awray  his 
seed-corn;  but  there  is  an  infallible  way  to  draw 
him  out,  namely,  by  having  as  good  as  he.  If 
you  have  Tuscaroora  and  he  Canada,  he  may  ex 
change  kernel  for  kernel.  If  his  discretion  is  in 
curable,  and  he  dare  not  speak  of  fairy  gold,  he 
will  yet  tell  what  new  books  he  has  found,  what  old 
ones  recovered,  what  men  write  and  read  abroad. 
A  principal  purpose  also  is  the  hospitality  of  the 
club,  as  a  means  of  receiving  a  worthy  foreigner 
with  mutual  advantage. 

Every  man  brings  into  society  some  partial 
thought  and  local  culture.  We  need  range  and 
alternation  of  topics,  and  variety  of  minds.  One 
likes  in  a  companion  a  phlegm  which  it  is  a  tri 
umph  to  disturb,  and,  not  less,  to  make  in  an  old 
acquaintance  unexpected  discoveries  of  scope  and 
power  through  the  advantage  of  an  inspiring  sub- 


CLUBS.  223 

ject.  Wisdom  is  like  electricity.  There  is  no  per 
manently  wise  man,  but  men  capable  of  wisdom, 
who,  being  put  into  certain  company,  or  other 
favorable  conditions,  become  wise  for  a  short  time, 
as  glasses  rubbed  acquire  electric  power  for  a  while. 
But,  while  we  look  complacently  at  these  obvious 
pleasures  and  values  of  good  companions,  I  do  not 
forget  that  Nature  is  always  very  much  in  earnest, 
and  that  her  great  gifts  have  something  serious  and 
stern.  When  we  look  for  the  highest  benefits  of 
conversation,  the  Spartan  rule  of  one  to  one  is 
usually  enforced.  Discourse,  when  it  rises  highest 
and  searches  deepest,  when  it  lifts  us  into  that 
mood  out  of  which  thoughts  come  that  remain  as 
stars  in  our  firmament,  is  between  two. 


COURAGE. 


COURAGE. 

I  OBSERVE  that  there  are  three  qualities  which 
conspicuously  attract  the  wonder  and  reverence  of 
mankind :  — 

1.  Disinterestedness,  as  shown  in  indifference  to 
the  ordinary  bribes  and  influences  of  conduct,  —  a 
purpose  so  sincere  and  generous  that  it  cannot  be 
tempted  aside  by  any  prospects  of  wealth  or  other 
private  advantage.  Self-love  is,  in  almost  all  men, 
such  an  over-weight,  that  they  are  incredulous  of  a 
man's  habitual  preference  of  the  general  good  to 
his  own ;  but  when  they  see  it  proved  by  sacrifices 
of  ease,  wealth,  rank,  and  of  life  itself,  there  is 
no  limit  to  their  admiration.  This  has  made  the 
power  of  the  saints  of  the  East  and  West,  who  have 
led  the  religion  of  great  nations.  Self-sacrifice  is 
the  real  miracle  out  of  which  all  the  reported  mira 
cles  grew.  This  makes  the  renown  of  the  heroes 
of  Greece  and  Rome, —  of  Socrates,  Aristides,  and 
Phocion  ;  of  Quintus  Curtius,  Cato,  and  Regulus ; 
of  Hatem  Tai's  hospitality;  of  Chatham,  whose 
scornful  magnanimity  gave  him  immense  popular 
ity  ;  of  Washington,  giving  his  service  to  the  public 
without  salary  or  reward. 


228  COURAGE. 

t 

2.  Practical  power.  Men  admire  the  man  who 
can  organize  their  wishes  and  thoughts  in  stone 
and  wood  and  steel  and  brass,  —  the  man  who  can 
build  the  boat,  who  has  the  impiety  to  make  the 
rivers  run  the  way  he  wants  them,  who  can  lead 
his  telegraph  through  the  ocean  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
who,  sitting  in  his  closet,  can  lay  out  the  plans  of 
a  campaign,  —  sea-war  and  land- war  ;  such  that  the 
best  generals  and  admirals,  when  all  is  done,  see  that 
they  must  thank  him  for  success  ;  the  power  of  better 
combination  and  foresight,  however  exhibited,  which, 
whether  it  only  plays  a  game  of  chess,  or  whether, 
more  loftily,  a  cunning  mathematician,  penetrating 
the  cubic  weights  of  stars,  predicts  the  planet  which 
eyes  had  never  seen ;  or  whether,  exploring  the 
chemical  elements  whereof  we  and  the  world  are 
made,  and  seeing  their  secret,  Franklin  draws  off 
the  lightning  in  his  hand,  suggesting  that  one  day 
a  wiser  geology  shall  make  the  earthquake  harmless 
and  the  volcano  an  agricultural  resource.  Or  here 
is  one  who,  seeing  the  wishes  of  men,  knows  how  to 
come  at  their  end  ;  whispers  to  this  friend,  argues 
down  that  adversary,  moulds  society  to  his  purpose, 
and  looks  at  all  men  as  wax  for  his  hands,  —  takes 
command  of  them  as  the  wind  does  of  clouds,  as 
the  mother  does  of  the  child,  or  the  man  that 
knows  more  does  of  the  man  that  knows  less ;  * 
and  leads  them  in  glad  surprise  to  the  very  point 
where  they  would  be :  this  man  is  followed  with 
acclamation. 


COURAGE.  229 

3.  The  third  excellence  is  courage,  the  perfect 
•will,  which  no  terrors  can  shake,  which  is  attracted 
by  frowns  or  threats  or  hostile  armies,  nay,  needs 
these  to  awake  and  fan  its  reserved  energies  into  a 
pure  flame,  and  is  never  quite  itself  until  the  hazard 
is  extreme  ;  then  it  is  serene  and  fertile,  and  all  its 
powers  play  well.  There  is  a  Hercules,  an  Achil 
les,  a  Rustem,  an  Arthur,  or  a  Cid  in  the  mythology 
of  every  nation  ;  and  in  authentic  history,  a  Leoni- 
das,  a  Scipio,  a  Cassar,  a  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  a 
Cromwell,  a  Nelson,  a  Great  Conde,  a  Bertrand  du 
Guesclin,  a  Doge  Dandolo,  a  Napoleon,  a  Massena, 
and  Ney.  'T  is  said  courage  is  common,  but  the 
immense  esteem  in  which  it  is  held  proves  it  to  be 
rare.  Animal  resistance,  the  instinct  of  the  male 
animal  when  cornered,  is  no  doubt  common ;  but 
the  pure  article,  courage  with  eyes,  courage  with 
conduct,  self-possession  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
cheerfulness  in  lonely  adherence  to  the  right,  is 
the  endowment  of  elevated  characters.  I  need  not 
show  how  much  it  is  esteemed,  for  the  people  give 
it  the  first  rank.  They  forgiA7e  everything  to  it. 
What  an  ado  we  make  through  two  thousand  years 
about  Thermopyla3  and  Salamis  !  What  a  memory 
of  Poitiers  and  Crecy,  and  Bunker  Hill,  and  Wash 
ington's  endurance  !  And  any  man  who  puts  his  life 
in  peril  in  a  cause  which  is  esteemed  becomes  the 
darling  of  all  men.  The  very  nursery-books,  the 
ballads  which  delight  boys,  the  romances  which 


230  COURAGE. 

delight  men,  the  favorite  topics  of  eloquence,  the 
thunderous  emphasis  which  orators  give  to  every 
martial  defiance  and  passage  of  arms,  and  which 
the  people  greet,  may  testify.  How  short  a  time 
since  this  whole  nation  rose  every  morning  to  read 
or  to  hear  the  traits  of  courage  of  its  sons  and 
brothers  in  the  field,  and  was  never  weary  of 
the  theme  !  We  have  had  examples  of  men  who, 
for  showing  effective  courage  on  a  single  occasion, 
have  become  a  favorite  spectacle  to  nations,  and 
must  be  brought  in  chariots  to  every  mass  meeting. 

Men  are  so  charmed  with  valor,  that  they  have 
pleased  themselves  with  being  called  lions,  leopards, 
eagles,  and  dragons,  from  the  animals  contemporary 
with  us  in  the  geologic  formations.  But  the  ani 
mals  have  great  advantage  of  us  in  precocity. 
Touch  the  snapping-turtle  with  9,  stick,  and  he 
seizes  it  with  his  teeth.  Cut  off  his  head,  and  the 
teeth  will  not  let  go  the  stick.  Break  the  egg  of 
the  young,  and  the  little  embryo,  before  yet  the 
eyes  are  open,  bites  fiercely ;  these  vivacious  crea 
tures  contriving,  —  shall  we  say  ?  —  not  only  to 
bite  after  they  are  dead,  but  also  to  bite  before  they 
are  born. 

But  man  begins  life  helpless.  The  babe  is  in 
paroxysms  of  fear  the  moment  its  nurse  leaves  it 
alone,  and  it  comes  so  slowly  to  any  power  of  self- 
protection,  that  mothers  say  the  salvation  of  the  life 
and  health  of  a  young  child  is  a  perpetual  miracle. 


COURAGE.  231 

The  terrors  of  the  child  are  quite  reasonable,  and 
add  to  his  loveliness;  for  his  utter  ignorance  and 
\veakness,  and  his  enchanting  indignation  on  such 
a  small  basis  of  capital,  compel  every  by-stander  to 
take  his  part.  Every  moment,  as  long  as  he  is 
awake,  he  studies  the  use  of  his  eyes,  ears,  hands, 
and  feet,  learning  how  to  meet  and  avoid  his  dan 
gers,  and  thus  every  hour  loses  one  terror  more. 
But  this  education  stops  too  soon.  A  large  majority 
of  men  being  bred  in  families,  and  beginning  early 
to  be  occupied  day  by  day  with  some  routine  of  safe 
industry,  never  come  to  the  rough  experiences  that 
make  the  Indian,  the  soldier,  or  the  frontiersman 
self-subsistent  and  fearless.  Hence  the  high  price 
of  courage  indicates  the  general  timidity.  "  Man 
kind,"  said  Franklin,  u  are  dastardly  when  they 
meet  with  opposition."  In  war  even,  generals  are 
seldom  found  eager  to  give  battle.  Lord  Welling 
ton  said,  "  Uniforms  were  often  masks  ";  and  again, 
"  When  my  journal  appears,  many  statues  must 
come  down."  The  Norse  Sagas  relate  that  when 
Bishop  Magne  reproved  King  Sigurd  for  his  wicked 
divorce,  the  priest  who  attended  the  bishop,  expect 
ing  every  moment  when  the  savage  king  would 
burst  with  rage  and  slay  his  superior,  said  u  that 
he  saw  the  sky  no  bigger  than  a  calf-skin."  And  I 
remember  when  a  pair  of  Irish  girls,  who  had  been 
run  away  with  in  a  wagon  by  a  skittish  horse,  said 
that,  when  he  began  to  rear,  they  were  so  frightened 
that  they  could  not  see  the  horse. 


232  COURAGE. 

Cowardice  shuts  the  eyes  till  the  sky  is  not 
larger  than  a  calf-skin  ;  shuts  the  eyes  so  that  we 
cannot  see  the  horse  that  is  running  away  with  us ; 
worse,  shuts  the  eyes  of  the  mind  and  chills  the 
heart.  Fear  is  cruel  and  mean.  The  political 
reigns  of  terror  have  been  reigns  of  madness  and 
malignity, —  a  total  perversion  of  opinion;  society 
is  upside  down,  and  its  best  men  are  thought  too 
bad  to  live.  Then  the  protection  which  a  house,  a 
family,  neighborhood  and  property,  even-  the  first 
accumulation  of  savings,  gives  go  in  all  times  to 
generate  this  taint  of  the  respectable  classes.  Vol 
taire  said,  "  One  of  the  chief  misfortunes  of  honest 
people  is  that  they  are  cowardly."  Those  political 
parties  which  gather-in  the  well-disposed  portion  of 
the  community, —  how  infirm  and  ignoble!  what 
white  lips  they  have  !  always  on  the  defensive,  as 
if  the  lead  were  intrusted  to  the  journals,  often 
written  in  great  part  by  women  and  boys,  who,  with 
out  strength,  wish  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of 
strength.  They  can  do  the  hurras,  the  placarding, 
the  flags, —  and  the  voting,  if  it  is  a  fair  day;  but 
the  aggressive  attitude  of  men  who  will  have  right 
done,  will  no  longer  be  bothered  with  burglars  and 
ruffians  in  the  streets,  counterfeiters  in  public  offices, 
and  thieves  on  the  bench ;  that  part,  the  part  of 
the  leader  and  soul  of  the  vigilance  committee, 
must  be  taken  by  stout  and  sincere  men  who  are 
really  angry  and  determined.  In  ordinary,  we 


COURAGE.  233 

have  a  snappish  criticism  which  watches  and  con 
tradicts  the  opposite  party.  We  want  the  will 
which  advances  and  dictates.  When  we  get  an 
advantage,  as  in  Congress  the  other  day,  it  is  be 
cause  our  adversary  has  committed  a  fault,  not 
that  we  have  taken  the  initiative  and  given  the  law. 
Nature  has  made  up  her  mind  that  what  cannot 
defend  itself  shall  not  be  defended.  Complaining 
never  so  loud,  and  with  never  so  much  reason,  is 
of  no  use.  One  heard  much  cant  of  peace-parties 
long  ago  in  Kansas  and  elsewhere,  that  their  strength 
lay  in  the  greatness  of  their  wrongs,  and  dissuading 
all  resistance,  as  if  to  make  this  strength  greater. 
But  were  their  wrongs  greater  than  the  negro's  ? 
and  what  kind  of  strength  did  they  ever  give  him  ? 
It  was  always  invitation  to  the  tyrant,  and  bred 
disgust  in  those  who  would  protect  the  victim. 
What  cannot  stand  must  fall  ;  and  the  measure  of 
our  sincerity,  and  therefore  of  the  respect  of  men, 
is  the  amount  of  health  and  wealth  we  will  hazard 
in  the  defence  of  our  right.  An  old  farmer,  my 
neighbor  across  the  fence,  when  I  ask  him  if  he  is 
not  going  to  town-meeting,  says  :  'l  No  ;  't  is  no  use 
balloting,  for  it  will  not  stay  ;  but  what  you  do  with 
the  gun  will  stay  so."  Nature  has  charged  every 
one  with  his  own  defence  as  with  his  own  support, 
and  the  only  title  I  can  have  to  your  help  is  when 
I  have  manfully  put  forth  all  the  means  I  possess  to 
keep  me,  and,  being  overborne  by  odds,  the  by-stand* 


234  COURAGE. 

ers  have  a  natural  wish  to  interfere  and  see  fail 
play. 

But  with  this  pacific  education,  we  have  no  readi 
ness  for  bad  times.  I  am  much  mistaken  if  every 
man  who  went  to  the  army  in  the  late  war  had  not 
a  lively  curiosity  to  know  how  he  should  behave  in 
action.  Tender,  amiable  boys,  who  had  never  en 
countered  any  rougher  play  than  a  base-ball  match 
or  a  fishing  excursion,  were  suddenly  drawn  up  to 
face  a  bayonet  charge  or  capture  a  battery.  Of 
course,  they  must  each  go  into  that  action  with  a 
certain  despair.  Each  whispers  to  himself:  "My 
exertions  must  be  of  small  account  to  the  result ; 
only  will  the  benignant  Heaven  save  me  from  dis 
gracing  myself  and  my  friends  and  my  State.  Die  ! 
O  yes,  I  can  well  die  ;  but  I  cannot  afford  to  mis 
behave  ;  and  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  feel."  So 
great  a  soldier  as  the  old  French  Marshal  Montluc 
acknowledges  that  he  has  often  trembled  with  fear, 
and  recovered  courage  when  he  had  said  a  prayei 
for  the  occasion.  I  knew  a  young  soldier  who 
died  in  the  early  campaign,  who  confided  to  his 
sister  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  volunteer  for 
the  war.  u  I  have  not,"  he  said,  "  any  proper  cour 
age,  but  I  shall  never  let  any  one  find  it  out." 
And  he  had  accustomed  himself  always  to  go 
into  whatever  place  of  danger,  and  do  whatever 
he  was  afraid  to  do,  setting  a  dogged  resolution  to 
'resist  this  natural  infirmity.  Coleridge  has  pre> 


COURAGE.  235 

served  an  anecdote  of  an  officer  in  the  British  Navy, 
who  told  him  that  when  he,  in  his  first  boat  expe 
dition,  a  midshipman  in  his  fourteenth  year,  accom- 
pained  Sir  Alexander  Ball,  "  as  we  were  rowing  up 
to  the  vessel  we  were  to  attack,  amid  a  discharge 
of  musketry,  I  was  overpowered  with  fear,  my 
knees  shook,  and  I  was  ready  to  faint  away.  Lieu 
tenant  Ball  seeing  me,  placed  himself  close  beside 
me,  took  hold  of  my  hand  and  whispered,  '  Cour 
age,  my  dear  boy  !  you  will  recover  in  a  minute  or 
so ;  I  was  just  the  same  when  I  first  went  out  in  this 
way.'  It  was  as  if  an  angel  spoke  to  me.  From 
that  moment  I  was  as  fearless  and  as  forward  as  the 
oldest  of  the  boat's  crew.  But  I  dare  not  think 
what  would  have  become  of  me,  if,  at  that  moment, 
he  had  scoffed  and  exposed  me." 

Knowledge  is  the  aniidote  to  fear,  —  Knowledge, 
Use,  and  Reason,  with  its  higher  aids.  The  child 
is  as  much  in  danger  from  a  staircase,  or  the 
fire-grate,  or  a  bath-tub,  or  a  cat,  as  the  soldier 
from  a  cannon  or  an  ambush.  Each  surmounts  the 
fear  as  fast  as  he  precisely  understands  the  peril, 
and  learns  the  means  of  resistance.  Each  is  liable 
to  panic,  which  is,  exactly,  the  terror  of  ignorance 
surrendered  to  the  imagination.  Knowledge  is  the 
encourager,  knowledge  that  takes  fear  out  of  the 
heart,  knowledge  and  use,  which  is  knowledge  in 
practice.  They  can  conquer  who  believe  they  can. 
It  is  he  who  has  done  the  deed  once  who  does  not 


236  COURAGE. 

shrink  from  attempting  it  again.  It  is  the  groom  who 
knows  the  jumping  horse  well  who  can  safely  ride 
him.  It  is  the  veteran  soldier,  who,  seeing  the  flash  of 
the  cannon,  can  step  aside  from  the  path  of  the  ball. 
Use  makes  a  better  soldier  than  the  most  urgent 
considerations  of  duty,  —  familiarity  with  danger  en 
abling  him  to  estimate  the  danger.  He  sees  how 
much  is  the  risk,  and  is  not  afflicted  with  imagina 
tion  ;  knows  practically  Marshal  Saxe's  rule,  that  ev 
ery  soldier  killed  costs  the  enemy  his  weight  in  lead. 

The  sailor  loses  fear  as  fast  as  he  acquires  com 
mand  of  sails  and  spars  and  steam  ;  the  frontiers 
man,  when  he  has  a  perfect  rifle  and  has  acquired  a 
sure  aim.  To  the  sailor's  experience  every  new 
circumstance  suggests  what  he  must  do.  The  ter 
rific  chances  which  make  the  hours  and  the  minutes 
long  to  the  passenger,  he  whiles  away  by  incessant 
application  of  expedients  and  repairs.  To  him  a 
leak,  a  hurricane,  or  a  water-spout  is  so  much 
work,  < —  no  more.  The  hunter  is  not  alarmed  by 
bears,  catamounts,  or  wolves,  nor  the  grazier  by  his 
bull,  nor  the  dog-breeder  by  his  bloodhound,  nor 
an  Arab  by  the  simoom,  nor  a  farmer  by  a  fire  in 
the  woods.  The  forest  on  fire  looks  discouraging 
enough  to  a  citizen  :  the  farmer  is  skilful  to  fight 
it.  The  neighbors  run  together  ;  with  pine  boughs 
they  can  mop  out  the  flame,  and,  by  raking  with  the 
hoe  a  long  but  little  trench,  confine  to  a  patch  the 
fire  which  would  easily  spread  over  a  hundred  acres. 


COURAGE. 


In  short,  courage  consists  in  equajity  to  the  pf' 


. 

lem  before  us.  The  school-boy  is  daunted  before  his 
tutor  by  a  question  of  arithmetic,  because  he  d60^  \  r  . 
not  yet  command  the  simple  steps  of  the  solution 
which  the  boy  beside  him  has  mastered.  These 
once  seen,  he  is  as  cool  as  Archimedes,  and  cheerily 
proceeds  a  step  farther.  Courage  is  equality  to  the 
problem,  in  affairs,  in  science,  in  trade,  in  council, 
or  in  action  ;  consists  in  the  conviction  that  the 
agents  with  whom  you  contend  are  not  superior  in 
strength  or  resources  or  spirit  to  you.  The  general 
must  stimulate  the  mind  of  his  soldiers  to  the  'per 
ception  that  they  are  men,  and  the  enemy  is  no 
more.  Knowledge,  yes  ;  for  the  danger  of  dangers  is 
illusion.  The  eye  is  easily  daunted;  and  the  drums, 
flags,  shining  helmets,  beard,  and  mustache  of  the 
soldier  have  conquered  you  long  before  his  sword 
or  bayonet  reaches  you. 

But  we  do  not  exhaust  the  subject  in  the  slight 
analysis  ;  we  must  not  forget  the  variety  of  tem 
peraments,  each  of  which  qualifies  this  power  of  re 
sistance.  It  is  observed  that  men  with  little  imagi 
nation  are  less  fearful  ;  they  wait  till  they  feel  pain, 
whilst  others  of  more  sensibility  anticipate  itvand 
suffer  in  the  fear  of  the  pang  more  acutely  than  in 
the  pang.  'T  is  certain  that  the  threat  is  sometimes 
more  formidable  than  the  stroke,  and  't  is  possible 
that  the  beholders  suffer  more  keenly  than  the  vic 
tims.  Bodily  pain  is  superficial,  seated  usually 


238  COURAGE. 

in  the  skin  and  the  extremities,  for  the  sake  of  giv 
ing  us  warning  to  put  us  on  oar  guard ;  not  in  the 
vitals,  where  the  rupture  that  produces  death  is 
perhaps  not  felt,  and  the  victim  never  knew  what 
hurt  him.  Pain  is  superficial,  and  therefore  fear 
is.  The  torments  of  martyrdoms  are  probably  most 
keenly  felt  by  the  by-standers.  The  torments  are 
illusory.  The  first  suffering  is  the  last  suffering, 
the  later  hurts  being  lost  on  insensibility.  Our  af 
fections  and  wishes  for  the  external  welfare  of  the 
hero  tumultuously  rush  to  expression  in  tears  and 
outcries  ;  but  we,  like  him,  subside  into  indiflPerency 
and  defiance,  when  we  perceive  how  short  is  the 
longest  arm  of  malice,  how  serene  is  the  sufferer. 

It  is  plain  that  there  is  no  separate  essence  called 
courage,  no  cup  or  cell  in  the  brain,  no  vessel  in 
the  heart  containing  drops  or  atoms  that  make  or 
give  this  virtue  ;  but  it  is  the  right  or  healthy  state 
of  every  man,  when  he  is  free  to  do  that  which  is 
constitutional  to  him  to  do.  It  is  directness,  —  the 
instant  performing  of  that  which  he  ought.  The 
thoughtful  man  says,  you  differ  from  me  in  opinion 
and  methods  ;  but  do  you  not  see  that  I  cannot  think 
or  act  otherwise  than  I  do  ?  that  my  way  of  living 
is  organic  ?  And  to  be  really  strong  we  must  ad 
here  to  our  own  means.  On  organic  action  all 
strength  depends.  Hear  what  women  say  of  doing 
a  task  by  sheer  force  of  will :  it  costs  them  a  fit  of 
sickness.  Plutarch  relates  that  the  Pythoness  who 


COURAGE.  239 

tried  to  prophesy  without  command  in  the  Temple 
at  Delphi,  though  she  performed  the  usual  rites,  and 
inhaled  the  air  of  the  cavern  standing  on  the  tripod, 
fell  into  convulsions,  and  died.  Undoubtedly  there 
is  a  temperamental  courage,  a  warlike  blood,  which 
loves  a  fight,  does  not  feel  itself  except  in  a  quarrel, 
as  one  sees  in  wasps,  or  ants,  or  cocks,  or  cats. 
The  like  vein  appears  in  certain  races  of  men  and 
in  individuals  of  every  race.  In  every  school  there 
are  certain  fighting  boys  ;  in  every  society,  the  con 
tradicting  men  ;  in  every  town,  bravoes  and  bullies, 
better  or  worse  dressed,  fancy-men,  patrons  of  the 
cock-pit  and  the  ring.  Courage  is  temperamental, 
scientific,  ideal.  Swedenborg  has  left  this  record 
of  his  king:  "Charles  XII.,  of  Sweden,  did  not 
know  what  that  was  which  others  called  fear,  nor 
what  that  spurious  valor  and  daring  that  is  excited 
by  inebriating  draughts,  for  he  never  tasted  any 
liquid  but  pure  water.  Of  him  we  may  say,  that 
he  led  a  life  more  remote  from  death,  and  in  fact 
lived  more,  than  any  other  man."  It  was  told  of 
the  Prince  of  Conde,  "  that  there  not  being  a  more 
furious  man  in  the  world,  danger  in  fight  never  dis 
turbs  him  more  than  just  to  make  him  civil,  and  to 
command  in  words  of  great  obligation  to  his  officers 
and  men,  and  without  any  the  least  disturbance  to 
his  judgment  or  spirit."  Each  has  his  own  courage, 
as  his  own  talent ;  but  the  courage  of  the  tiger  is 
one,  and  of  the  horse  another.  The  dog  that  scorn-« 


240  COURAGE. 

to  fight,  will  fight  for  his  master.  The  llama  that 
will  carry  a  load  if  you  caress  him,  will  refuse  food 
and  die  if  he  is  scourged.  The  fury  of  onset  is  one, 
and  of  calm  endurance  another.  There  is  a  courage 
of  the  cabinet  as  well  as  a  courage  of  the  field  ; 
a  courage  of  manners  in  private  assemblies,  and 
another  in  public  assemblies ;  a  courage  which 
enables  one  man  to  speak  masterly  to  a  hostile  com 
pany,  whilst  another  man  who  can  easily  face  a 
cannon's  mouth  dares  not  open  his  own. 

There  is  a  courage  of  a  merchant  in  dealing  with 
his  trade,  by  which  dangerous  turns  of  affairs  are 
met  and  prevailed  over.  Merchants  recognize  as 
much  gallantry,  well  judged  too,  in  the  conduct  of 
a  wise  and  upright  man  of  business,  in  difficult  times, 
as  soldiers  in  a  soldier. 

There  is  a  courage  in  the  treatment  of  every  art 
by  a  master  in  architecture,  in  sculpture,  in  paint 
ing,  or  in  poetry,  each  cheering  the  mind  of  the 
spectator  or  receiver  as  by  true  strokes  of  ge 
nius,  which  yet  nowise  implies  the  presence  of 
physical  valor  in  the  artist.  This  is  the  courage  of 
genius,  in  every  kind.  A  certain  quantity  of  power 
belongs  to  a  certain  quantity  of  faculty.  The 
beautiful  voice  at  church  goes  sounding  on,  and  cov 
ers  up  in  its  volume,  as  in  a  cloak,  all  the  defects  of 
the  choir.  The  singers,  I  observe,  all  yield  to  it, 
and  so  the  fair  singer  indulges  her  instinct,  and 
dares,  and  dares,  because  she  knows  she  can. 


COURAGE.  241 

It  gives  the  cutting  edge  to  every  profession.  The 
judge  puts  his  mind  to  the  tangle  of  contradictions 
in  the  case,  squarely  accosts  the  question,  and,  by 
not  being  afraid  of  it,  by  dealing  with  it  as  business 
which  must  be  disposed  of,  he  sees  presently  that 
common  arithmetic  and  common  methods  apply  to 
this  affair.  Perseverance  strips  it  of  all  peculiari 
ty,  and  ranges  it  on  the  same  ground  as  other 
business.  Morphy  played  a  daring  game  in  chess  : 
the  daring  was  only  an  illusion  of  the  spectator, 
for  the  player  sees  his  move  to  be  well  fortified  and 
safe.  You  may  see  the  same  dealing  in  criticism  ; 
a  new  book  astonishes  for  a  few  days,  takes  itself 
out  of  common  jurisdiction,  and  nobody  knows  what 
to  say  of  it :  but  the  scholar  is  not  deceived.  The 
old  principles  which  books  exist  to  express  are  more 
beautiful  than  any  book  ;  and  out  of  love  of  the 
reality  he  is  an  expert  judge  how  far  the  book  has 
approached  it  and  where  it  has  come  short.  In 
all  applications  't  is  the  same  power,  —  the  habit 
of  reference  to  one's  own  mind,  as  the  home  of  all 
truth  and  counsel,  and  which  can  easily  dispose  of  any 
book  because  it  can  very  well  do  without  all  books. 
When  a  confident  man  comes  into  a  company  mag 
nifying  this  or  that  author  he  has  freshly  read,  the 
company  grow  silent  and  ashamed  of  their  igno 
rance.  But  I  remember  the  old  professor,  whose 
searching  mind  engraved  every  word  he  spoke  on 
the  memory  of  the  class,  when  we  asked  if  he  had 


242  COURAGE. 

read  this  or  that  shining  novelty,  "  No,  I  have 
never  read  that  book  "  ;  instantly  the  book  lost 
credit,  and  was  not  to  be  heard  of  again. 

Every  creature  has  a  courage  of  his  constitution 
fit  for  his  duties  :  —  Archimedes,  the  courage  of  a 
geometer  to  stick  to  his  diagram,  heedless  of  the 
siege  and  sack  of  the  city  ;  and  the  Roman  soldier 
his  faculty  to  strike  at  Archimedes.  Each  is  strong, 
relying  on  his  own,  and  each  is  betrayed  when  he 
seeks  in  himself  the  courage  of  others. 

Captain  John  Brown,  the  hero  of  Kansas,  said 
to  me  in  conversation,  that  "  for  a  settler  in  a  new 
country,  one  good,  believing,  strong-minded  man  is 
worth  a  hundred,  nay,  a  thousand  men  without 
character  ;  and  that  the  right  men  will  give  a  per 
manent  direction  to  the  fortunes  of  a  state.  As 
for  the  bullying  drunkards,  of  which  armies  are 
usually  made  up,  he  thought  cholera,  small-pox,  and 
consumption  as  valuable  recruits."  He  held  the 
belief  that  courage  and  chastity  are  silent  concern 
ing  themselves.  He  said,  "  As  soon  as  I  hear  one 
of  my  men  say,  '  Ah,  let  me  only  get  my  eye  on 
such  a  man,  I  '11  bring  him  down,'  I  don't  expect 
much  aid  in  the  fight  from  that  talker.  'T  is  the 
quiet,  peaceable  men,  the  men  of  principle,  that 
make  the  best  soldiers." 

"  'T  is  still  observed  those  men  most  valiant  are 
Who  are  most  modest  ere  they  came  to  war." 

True  courage  is  not  ostentatious  ;  men  who  wish 


COUEAGE.  243 

to  inspire  terror  seem  thereby  to  confess  themselves 
cowards.  Why  do  they  rely  on  it,  but  because  they 
know  how  potent  it  is  with  themselves  ? 

The  true  temper  has  genial  influences.  It  makes 
a  bond  of  union  between  enemies.  Governor  Wise 
of  Virginia,  in  the  record  of  his  first  interviews 
with  his  prisoner,  appeared  to  great  advantage.  If 
Governor  Wise  is  a  superior  man,  or  inasmuch  as 
he  is  a  superior  man,  he  distinguishes  John  Brown. 
As  they  confer,  they  understand  each  other  swiftly  ; 
each  respects  the  other.  If  opportunity  allowed, 
they  would  prefer  each  other's  society  and  desert 
their  former  companions.  Enemies  would  become 
affectionate.  Hector  and  Achilles,  Richard  and 
Saladin,  Wellington  and  Soult,  General  Daumas 
and  Abdel  Kader,  become  aware  that  they  are 
nearer  and  more  alike  than  any  other  two,  and,  if 
their  nation  and  circumstance  did  not  keep  them 
apart,  would  run  into  each  other's  arms. 

See  too  what  good  contagion  belongs  to  it.  Ev 
erywhere  it  finds  its  own  with  magnetic  affinity. 
Courage  of  the  soldier  awakes  the  courage  of  wo 
man.  Florence  Nightingale  brings  lint  and  the 
blessing  of  her  shadow.  Heroic  women  offer  them 
selves  as  nurses  of  the  brave  veteran.  The  troop 
of  Virginian  infantry  that  had  marched  to  guard 
the  prison  of  John  Brown  ask  leave  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the  prisoner.  Poetry  and  eloquence 
catch  the  hint,  and  soar  to  a  pitch  unknown  be- 


244  COURAGE. 

fore.  Everything  feels  the  new  breath,  except 
the  old  doting,  nigh-dead  politicians,  whose  heait 
the  trumpet  of  resurrection  could  not  wake. 

The  charm  of  the  best  courages  is  that  they  are 
inventions,  inspirations,  flashes  of  genius.  The  hero 
could  not  have  done  the  feat  at  another  hour,  in  a 
lower  mood.  The  best  act  of  the  marvellous  genius 
of  Greece  was  its  first  act ;  not  in  the  statue  or 
the  Parthenon,  -but  in  the  instinct  which,  at  Ther 
mopylae,  held  Asia  at  bay,  kept  Asia  out  of  Europe, 
—  Asia  with  its  antiquities  and  organic  slavery,  — 
from  corrupting  the  hope  and  new  morning  of  the 
West.  The  statue,  the  architecture,  were  the  later 
and  inferior  creation  of  the  same  genius.  In  view 
of  this  moment  of  history,  we  recognize  a  certain 
prophetic  instinct  better  than  wisdom.  Napoleon 
said  well,  u  My  hand  is  immediately  connected  with 
my  head  "  ;  but  the  sacred  courage  is  connected 
with  the  heart.  The  head  is  a  half,  a  fraction, 
until  it  is  enlarged  and  inspired  by  the  moral  senti 
ment.  For  it  is  not  the  means  on  which  we  draw, 
as  health  or  wealth,  practical  skill  or  dexterous 
talent,  or  multitudes  of  followers,  that  count,  but 
the  aims  only.  The  aim  reacts  back  on  the  means. 
A  great  aim  aggrandizes  the  means.  The  meal 
and  water  that  are  the  commissariat  of  the  forlorn 
hope  that  stake  their  lives  to  defend  the  pass  are 
sacred  as  the  Holy  Grail,  or  as  if  one  had  eyes  to 
see  in  chemistry  the  fuel  that  is  rushing  to  feed  the 
sun. 


COURAGE.  245 

There  is  a  persuasion  in  the  soul  of  man  that 
he  is  here  for  cause,  that  he  was  put  down  in  this 
place  by  the  Creator  to  do  the  work  for  which 
he  inspires  him,  that  thus  he  is  an  overmatch 
for  all  antagonists  that  could  combine  against  him. 
The  pious  Mrs.  Hutchinson  says  of  some  passages 
in  the  defence  of  Nottingham  against  the  Cava 
liers,  "  It  was  a  great  instruction  that  the  best  and 
highest  courages  are  beams  of  the  Almighty."  And 
whenever  the  religious  sentiment  is  adequately  af 
firmed,  it  must  be  with  dazzling  courage.  As  long 
as  it  is  cowardly  insinuated,  as  with  the  wish  to 
succor  some  partial  and  temporary  interest,  or  to 
make  it  affirm  some  pragmatical  tenet  which  our 
parish  church  receives  to-day,  it  is  not  imparted, 
and  cannot  inspire  or  create.  For  it  is  always  new, 
leads  and  surprises,  and  practice  never  comes  up 
with  it.  There  are  ever  appearing  in  the  world  men 
who,  almost  as  soon  as  they  are  born,  take  a  bee-line 
to  the  rack  of  the  inquisitor,  the  axe  of  the  tyrant, 
like  Jordano  Bruno,  Vanini,  Huss,  Paul,  Jesus,  and 
Socrates.  Look  at  Fox's  Lives  of  the  Martyrs, 
Sewel's  History  of  the  Quakers,  Southey's  Book  of 
the  Church,  at  the  .folios  of  the  Brothers  Bollandi, 
who  collected  the  lives  of  twenty-five  thousand  mar 
tyrs,  confessors,  ascetics,  and  self-tormentors.  There 
is  much  of  fable,  but  a  broad  basis  of  fact.  The  ten 
der  skin  does  not  shrink  from  bayonets,  the  timid 
woman  is  not  scared  by  fagots ;  the  rack  is  not 


246  COURAGE. 

frightful,  nor  the  rope  ignominious.  The  poor  Pu 
ritan,  Antony  Parsons,  at  the  stake,  tied  straw  on  his 
head,  when  the  fire  approached  him,  and  said,  u  This 
is  God's  hat."  Sacred  courage  indicates  that  a  man 
loves  an  idea  better  than  all  things  in  the  world  ;  that 
he  is  aiming  neither  at  pelf  or  comfort,  but  will  ven 
ture  all  to  put  in  act  the  invisible  thought  in  his  mind. 
He  is  everywhere  a  liberator,  but  of  a  freedom  that  is 
ideal ;  not  seeking  to  have  land  or  money  or  con 
veniences,  but  to  have  no  other  limitation  than  that 
which  his  own  constitution  imposes.  He  is  free  to 
speak  truth ;  he  is  not  free  to  lie.  He  wishes  to 
break  every  yoke  all  over  the  world  which  hinders 
his  brother  from  acting  after  his  thought. 

There  are  degrees  of  courage,  and  each  step  up 
ward  makes  us  acquainted  with  a  higher  virtue. 
Let  us  say  then  frankly  that  the  education  of  the 
will  is  the  object  of  our  existence.  Poverty,  the 
prison,  the  rack,  the  fire,  the  hatred  and  execra 
tions  of  our  fellow-men,  appear  trials  beyond  the 
endurance  of  common  humanity  ;  but  to  the  hero 
whose  intellect  is  aggrandized  by  the  soul,  and  so 
measures  these  penalties  against  the  good  which  his 
thought  surveys,  these  terrors  vanish  as  darkness  at 
sunrise. 

We  have  little  right  in  piping  times  of  peace  to 
pronounce  on  these  rare  heights  of  character  ;  but 
there  is  no  assurance  of  security.  In  the  most 
private  life,  difficult  duty  is  never  far  off.  There- 


COURAGE.  247 

fore  we  must  think  with  courage.  Scholars  and 
thinkers  are  prone  to  an  effeminate  habit,  and  shrink 
if  a  coarser  shout  comes  up  from  the  street,  or  a 
brutal  act  is  recorded  in  the  journals.  The  Medical 
College  piles  up  in  its  museum  its  grim  monsters  of 
morbid  anatomy,  and  there  are  melancholy  sceptics 
with  a  taste  for  carrion  who  batten  on  the  hideous 
facts  in  history,  —  persecutions,  inquisitions,  St. 
Bartholomew  massacres,  devilish  lives,  Nero,  Cassar, 
Borgia,  Marat,  Lopez,  —  men  in  whom  every  ray 
of  humanity  was  extinguished,  parricides,  matri 
cides,  and  whatever  moral  monsters.  These  are 
not  cheerful  facts,  but  they  do  not  disturb  a  healthy 
mind ;  they  require  of  us  a  patience  as  robust  as 
the  energy  that  attacks  us,  and  an  unresting  ex 
ploration  of  final  causes.  Wolf,  snake,  and  croco 
dile  are  not  inharmonious  in  nature,  but  are  made 
useful  as  checks,  scavengers,  and  pioneers  ;  and  we 
must  have  a  scope  as  large  as  Nature's  to  deal  with 
beast-like  men,  detecj  what  scullion  function  is  as 
signed  them,  and  foresee  in  the  secular  melioration 
of  the  planet  how  these  will  become  unnecessary, 
and  will  die  out. 

He  has  not  learned  the  lesson  of  life  who  does 
not  every  day  surmount  a  fear.  I  do  not  wish  to 
put  myself  or  any  man  into  a  theatrical  position,  or 
urge  him  to  ape  the  courage  of  his  comrade.  Have 
the  courage  not  to  adopt  another's  courage.  There 
is  scope  and  cause  and  resistance  enough  for  us  in 


248  COURAGE. 

our  proper  work  and  circumstance.  And  there  is 
no  creed  of  an  honest  man,  be  he  Christian,  Turk, 
or  Gentoo,  which  does  not  equally  preach  it.  If 
you  have  no  faith  in  beneficent  power  above  you, 
but  see  only  an  adamantine  fate  coiling  its  folds 
about  nature  and  man,  then  reflect  that  the  best  use 
of  fate  is  to  teach  us  courage,  if  only  because  base 
ness  cannot  change  the  appointed  event.  If  you 
accept  your  thoughts  as  inspirations  from  the  Su 
preme  Intelligence,  obey  them  when  they  prescribe 
difficult  duties,  because  they  come  only  so  long  as 
they  are  used  ;  or,  if  your  scepticism  reaches  to 
the  last  verge,  and  you  have  no  confidence  in  any 
foreign  mind,  then  be  brave,  because  there  is  one 
good  opinion  which  must  always  be  of  consequence 
to  you,  namely,  your  own. 


I  am  permitted  to  enrich  my  chapter 'by  adding 
an  anecdote  of  pure  courage  from  real  life,  as  nar 
rated  in  a  ballad  by  a  lady  to  whom  all  the  particu 
lars  of  the  fact  are  exactly  known. 


GEORGE  NIDIVER. 

Men  have  done  brave  deeds, 

And  bards  have  sung  them  well : 

I  of  good  George  Nidiver 
Now  the  tale  will  tell. 


COURAGE.  249 


In  Californian  mountains 

A  hunter  bold  was  he  : 
Keen  his  eye  and  sure  his  aim 

As  any  you  should  see. 

A  little  Indian  boy 

Followed  him  everywhere, 
Eager  to  share  the  hunter's  joy, 

The  hunter's  meal  to  share. 

And  when  the  bird  or  deer 

Fell  by  the  hunter's  skill, 
The  boy  was  always  ne.ar 

To  help  with  right  good-will. 

One  day  as  through  the  cleft 
Between  two  mountains  steep, 

Shut  in  both  right  and  left, 
Their  questing  way  they  keep, 

They  see  two  grizzly  bears 
With  hunger  fierce  and  fell 

Kush  at  them  unawares 
Right  down  the  narrow  dell. 

The  boy  turned  round  with  screams, 
And  ran  with  terror  wild  ; 

One  of  the  pair  of  savage  beasts 
Pursued  the  shrieking  child. 

The  hunter  raised  his  gun,  — 
He  knew  one  charge  was  all,  — 

And  through  the  boy's  pursuing  fo« 
He  sent  his  only  ball. 

The  other  on  George  Nidiver 
Came  on  with  dreadful  pace  : 

The  hunter  stood  unarmed, 
And  met  him  face  to  face. 


250  COURAGE. 

I  say  unarmed  he  stood. 

Against  those  frightful  pawa 
The  rifle  but,  or  club  of  wood, 

Could  stand  no  more  than  straws. 

George  Nidiver  stood  still  ^ 
And  looked  him  in  the  face  ; 

The  wild  beast  stopped  amazed, 
Then  came  with  slackening  pace. 

Still  firm  the  hunter  stood, 
Although  his  heart  beat  high ; 

Again  the  creature  stopped, 
And  gazed  with  wondering  eye. 

The  hunter  met  his  gaze, 
Nor  yet  an  inch  gave  way  ; 

The  bear  turned  slowly  round, 
And  slowly  moved  away. 

What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind 
It  would  be  hard  to  spell : 

What  thoughts  were  in  George  Nidiver 
I  rather  guess  than  tell. 

But  sure  that  rifle's  aim, 

Swift  choice  of  generous  part, 

Showed  in  its  passing  gleam 
The  depths  of  a  brave  heart. 


SUCCESS. 


SUCCESS. 

OUR  American  people  cannot  be  taxed  with 
slowness  in  performance  or  in  praising  their  per 
formance.  The  earth  is  shaken  by  our  engineries. 
We  are  feeling  our  youth  and  nerve  and  bone. 
We  have  the  power  of  territory  and  of  sea-coast, 
and  know  the  use  of  these.  We  count  our  cen 
sus,  we  read  our  growing  valuations,  we  survey 
our  map,  which  becomes  old  in  a  year  or  two.  Our 
eyes  run  approvingly  along  the  lengthened  lines  of 
railroad  and  telegraph.  We  have  gone  nearest  to 
the  Pole.  We  have  discovered  the  Antarctic  conti 
nent.  We  interfere  in  Central  and  South  America, 
at  Canton,  and  in  Japan ;  we  are  adding  to  an  al 
ready  enormous  territory.  Our  political  constitu 
tion  is  the  hope  of  the  world,  and  we  value  ourselves 
on  all  these  feats. 

5T  is  the  way  of  the  world ;  't  is  the  law  of 
youth,  and  of  unfolding  strength.  Men  are  made 
each  with  some  triumphant  superiority,  which, 
through  some  adaptation  of  fingers,  or  ear,  or  eye, 
or  ciphering,  or  pugilistic  or  musical  or  literary 
craft,  enriches  the  community  with  a  new  art ;  and 


254  SUCCESS. 

not  only  we,  but  all  men  of  European  stock  value 
these  certificates.  Giotto  could  draw  a  perfect  cir 
cle  ;  Erwin  of  Steinbach  could  build  a  minster; 
Olaf,  king  of  Norway,  could  run  round  his  galley 
on  the  blades  of  the  oars  of  the  rowers,  when  the 
ship  was  in  motion  ;  Ojeda  could  run  out  swiftly  on 
a  plank  projected  from  the  top  of  a  tower,  turn  round 
swiftly,  and  come  back  ;  Evelyn  writes  from  Rome : 
"  Bernini,  the  Florentine  sculptor,  architect,  painter, 
and  poet,  a  little  before  my  coming  to  Rome,  gave 
a  public  opera,  wherein  he  painted  the  scenes,  cut 
the  statues,  invented  the  engines,  composed  the 
music,  writ  the  comedy,  and  built  the  theatre." 

u  There  is  nothing  in  war,"  said  Napoleon,  "  which 
I  cannot  do  by  my  own  hands.  If  there  is  nobody 
to  make  gunpowder,  I  can  manufacture  it.  The 
gun-carriages  I  know  how  to  construct.  If  it  is  ne 
cessary  to  make  cannons  at  the  forge,  I  can  make 
them.  The  details  of  working  them  in  battle,  if 
it  is  necessary  to  teach,  I  shall  teach  them.  In 
administration,  it  is  I  alone  who  have  arranged 
the  finances,  as  you  know." 

It  is  recorded  of  Linnaeus,  among  many  proofs  of 
his  beneficent  skill,  that  when  the  timber  in  the  ship 
yards  of  Sweden  was  ruined  by  rot,  Linnaeus  was 
desired  by  the  government  to  find  a  remedy.  He 
studied  the  insects  that  infested  the  timber,  and 
found  that  they  laid  their  eggs  in  the  logs  within 
certain  days  in  April,  and  he  directed  that  during 


SUCCESS.  255 

ten  days  at  that  season  the  logs  should  be  immersed 
under  water  in  the  docks ;  which  being  done  the 
timber  was  found  to  be  uninjured. 

Columbus  at  Veragua  found  plenty  of  gold  ;  but 
leaving  the  coast,  the  ship  full  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  skilful  seamen,  —  some  of  them  old  pilots,  and 
with  too  much  experience  of  their  craft  and  treach 
ery  to  him,  —  the  wise  admiral  kept  his  private 
record  of  his  homeward  path.  And  when  he  reached 
Spain,  he  told  the  King  and  Queen,  "  that  they 
may  ask  all  the  pilots  who  came  with  him,  where  is 
Veragua.  Let  them  answer  and  say,  if  they  know 
where  Veragua  lies.  I  assert  that  they  can  give  no 
other  account  than  that  they  went  to  lands  where 
there  was  abundance  of  gold,  but  they  do  not  know 
the  way  to  return  thither,  but  would  be  obliged  to 
go  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  as  much  as  if  they  had 
never  been  there  before.  There  is  a  mode  of  reck 
oning,"  he  proudly  adds,  u  derived  from  astronomy, 
which  is  sure  and  safe  to  any  who  understands  it." 

Hippocrates  in  Greece  knew  how  to  stay  the  de 
vouring  plague  which  ravaged  Athens  in  his  time, 
and  his  skill  died  with  him.  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush,  in 
Philadelphia,  carried  that  city  heroically  through  the 
yellow  fever  of  the  year  1793.  Leverrier  carries  the 
Copernican  system  in  his  head,  and  knew  where  to 
look  for  the  new  planet.  We  have  seen  an  American 
woman  write  a  novel  of  which  a  million  copies  were 
sold  in  all  languages,  and  which  had  one  merit,  of 


256  SUCCESS. 

speaking  to  the  universal  heart,  and  was  read  with 
equal  interest  to  three  audiences,  namely,  in  the 
parlor,  in  the  kitchen,  and  in  the  nursery  of  every 
house.  We  have  seen  women  who  could  institute 
hospitals  and  schools  in  armies.  We  have  seen  a 
woman  who  by  pure  song  could  melt  the  souls  of 
whole  populations.  And  there  is  no  limit  to  these 
varieties  of  talent. 

These  are  arts  to  be  thankful  for,  —  each  one  as 
it  is  a  new  direction  of  human  power.  We  cannot 
choose  but  respect  them.  Our  civilization  is  made 
up  of  a  million  contributions  of  this  kind.  For  suc 
cess,  to  be  sure,  we  esteem  it  a  test  in  other  people, 
since  we  do  first  in  ourselves.  We  respect  our 
selves  more  if  we  have  succeeded.  Neither  do  we 
grudge  to  each  of  these  benefactors  the  praise  or 
the  profit  which  accrues  from  his  industry. 

Here  are  already  quite  different  degrees  of  moral 
merit  in  these  examples.  I  don't  know  but  we  and 
our  race  elsewhere  set  a  higher  value  on  wealth,  vic 
tory,  and  coarse  superiority  of  all  kinds,  than  other 
men,  —  have  less  tranquillity  of  mind,  are  less  easily 
contented.  The  Saxon  is  taught  from  his  infancy 
to  wish  to  be  first.  The  Norseman  was  a  restless 
rider,  fighter,  freebooter.  The  ancient  Norse  ballads 
describe  him  as  afflicted  with  this  inextinguishable 
thirst  of  victory.  The  mother  says  to  her  son  :  — 

"  Success  shall  be  in  thy  courser  tall, 
Success  in  thyself,  which  is  best  of  all, 


SUCCESS.  257 

Success  in  thy  hand,  success  in  thy  foot, 
In  struggle  with  man,  in  battle  with  brute :  — 
The  holy  God  and  Saint  Drothin  dear 
Shall  never  shut  eyes  on  thy  career ; 

Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved  ! " 

These  feats  that  we  extol  do  not  signify  so  much 
as  we  say.  These  boasted  arts  are  of  very  recent 
origin.  They  are  local  conveniences,  but  do  not 
really  add  to  our  stature.  The  greatest  men  of  the 
world  have  managed  not  to  want  them.  Newton 
was  a  great  man,  without  telegraph,  or  gas,  or 
steam-coach,  or  rubber  shoes,  or  lucifer-matches,  or 
ether  for  his  pain  ;  so  was  Shakspeare,  and  Alfred, 
and  Scipio,  and  Socrates.  These  are  local  conven 
iences,  but  how  easy  to  go  now  to  parts  of  the 
world  where  not  only  all  these  arts  are  wanting, 
but  where  they  are  despised.  The  Arabian  sheiks, 
the  most  dignified  people  in  the  planet,  do  not 
want  them  ;  yet  have  as  much  self-respect  as  the 
English,  and  are  easily  able  to  impress  the  French 
man  or  the  American  who  visits  them  with  the 
respect  due  to  a  brave  and  sufficient  man. 

These  feats  have,  to  be  sure,  great  difference  of 
merit  and  some  of  them  involve  power  of  a  high 
kind.  But  the  public  values  the  invention  more 
than  the  inventor  does.  The  inventor  knows  there 
is  much  more  and  better  where  this  came  from. 
The  public  sees  in  it  a  lucrative  secret.  Men  see 
the  reward  which  the  inventor  enjoys,  and  they 
think,  4  How  shall  we  win  that  ?  '  Cause  and  effect 


258  SUCCESS. 

are  a  little  tedious;  how  to  leap  to  the  result  by 
short  or  by  false  means  ?  We  are  not  scrupulous. 
What  we  ask  is  victory,  without  regard  to  the  cause  ; 
after  the  Rob  Roy  rule,  after  the  Napoleon  rule,  to 
be  the  strongest  to-day, — the  way  of  the  Talley- 
rands,  —  prudent  people,  whose  watches  go  faster 
than  their  neighbors',  and  who  detect  the  first  mo 
ment  of  decline,  and  throw  themselves  on  the  in 
stant  on  the  winning  side.  I  have  heard  that  Nel 
son  used  to  say,  "Never  mind  the  justice  or  the 
impudence,  only  let  me  succeed."  Lord  Brough 
am's  single  duty  of  counsel  is,  u  to  get  the  prisoner 
clear."  Fuller  says  't  is  a  maxim  of  lawyers,  "  that 
a  crown  once  worn  cleareth  all  defects  of  the  wearer 
thereof."  Rien  ne  reussit  mieux  que  le  succes.  And 
we  Americans  are  tainted  with  this  insanity,  as  our 
bankruptcies  and  our  reckless  politics  may  show. 
We  are  great  by  exclusion,  grasping,  and  egotism. 
Our  success  takes  from  all  what  it  gives  to  one. 
'T  is  a  haggard,  malignant,  careworn  running  for 
luck. 

Egotism  is  a  kind  of  buckram  that  gives  momen 
tary  strength  and  concentration  to  men,  and  seems 
to  be  much  used  in  nature  for  fabrics  in  which  local 
and  spasmodic  energy  is  required.  I  could  point  to 
men  in  this  country  of  indispensable  importance  to 
the  carrying  on  of  American  life,  of  this  humor, 
whom  we  could  ill  spare ;  any  one  of  them  would 
be  a  national  loss.  But  it  spoils  conversation.  They 


SUCCESS.  259 

will  not  try  conclusions  with  you.  They  are  ever 
thrusting  this  pampered  self  between  you  and  them. 
It  is  plain  they  have  a  long  education  to  undergo 
to  reach  simplicity  and  plain-dealing,  which  are 
what  a  wise  man  mainly  cares  for  in  his  companion. 
Nature  knows  how  to  convert  evil  to  good  ;  Nature 
utilizes  misers,  fanatics,  show-men,  egotists,  to  ac 
complish  her  ends ;  but  we  must  not  think  better 
of  the  foible  for  that.  The  passion  for  sudden  suc 
cess  is  rude  and  puerile,  just  as  war,  cannons,  and 
executions  are  used  to  clear  the  ground  of  bad, 
lumpish,  irreclaimable  savages,  but  always  to  the 
damage  of  the  conquerors. 

I  hate  this  shallow  Americanism  which  hopes  to 
get  rich  by  credit,  to  get  knowledge  by  raps  on 
midnight  tables,  to  learn  the  economy  of  the  mind 
by  phrenology,  or  skill  without  study,  or  mastery 
without  apprenticeship,  or  the  sale  of  goods  through 
pretending  that  they  sell,  or  power  through  making 
believe  you  are  powerful,  or  through  a  packed  jury 
or  caucus,  bribery  and  "  repeating  "  votes,  or  wealth 
by  fraud.  They  think  they  have  got  it,  but  they 
have  got  something  else, — a  crime  which  calls  for 
another  crime,  and  another  devil  behind  that ;  these 
are  steps  to  suicide,  infamy,  and  the  harming  of 
mankind.  We  countenance  each  other  in  this  life 
of  show,  puffing,  advertisement,  and  manufacture 
of  public  opinion ;  and  excellence  is  lost  sight  of 
in  the  hunger  for  sudden  performance  and  praise. 


260  SUCCESS. 

There  was  a  wise  man,  an  Italian  artist,  Michel 
Angelo,  W}1O  writes  thus  of  himself:  "  Meanwhile 

o          > 

the  Cardinal  Ippolito,  in  whom  all  my  best  hopes 
were  placed,  being  dead,  I  began  to  understand  that 
the  promises  of  this  world  are,  for  the  most  part, 
vain  phantoms,  and  that  to  confide  in  one's  self,  and 
become  something  of  worth  and  value,  is  the  best 
and  safest  course."  Now,  though  I  am  by  no 
means  sure  that  the  reader  will  assent  to  all  my 
propositions,  yet  I  think  we  shall  agree  in  my  first 
rule  for  success,  —  that  we  shall  drop  the  brag  and 
the  advertisement,  and  take  Michel  Angelo's  course, 
"  to  confide  in  one's  self,  and  be  something  of  worth 
and  value." 

Each  man  has  an  aptitude  born  with  him  to  do 
easily  some  feat  impossible  to  any  other.  Do  your 
work.  I  have  to  say  this  often,  but  nature  says  it 
oftener.  'T  is  clownish  to  insist  on  doing  all  with 
one's  own  hands,  as  if  every  man  should  build  his 
own  clumsy  house,  forge  his  hammer,  and  bake  his 
dough  ;  but  he  is  to  dare  to  do  what  he  can  do  best ; 
not  help  others  as  they  would  direct  him,  but  as  he 
knows  his  helpful  power  to  be.  To  do  otherwise  is 
to  neutralize  all  those  extraordinary  special  talents 
distributed  among  men.  Yet,  whilst  this  self-truth 
is  essential  to  the  exhibition  of  the  world  and  to  the 
growth  and  glory  of  each  mind,  it  is  rare  to  find  a 
man  who  believes  his  own  thought  or  who  speaks 
that  which  he  was  created  to  say.  As  nothing 


SUCCESS.  261 

^-^ ^^ 

astonishes  men  so  much  as  common  sense  and  plain- 
dealing,  so  nothing  is  more  rare  in  any  man  than 
an  act  of  his  own.  Any  work  looks  wonderful  to 
him,  except  that  which  he  can  do.  We  do  not  be 
lieve  our  own  thought ;  we  must  serve  somebody ; 
we  must  quote  somebody  ;  we  dote  on  the  old  and 
the  distant ;  we  are  tickled  by  great  names ;  we  im 
port  the  religion  of  other  nations  ;  we  quote  their 
opinions ;  we  cite  their  laws.  The  gravest  and 
learnedest  courts  in  this  country  shudder  to  face  a 
new  question,  and  will  wait  months  and  years  for  a 
case  to  occur  that  can  be  tortured  into  a  precedent, 
and  thus  throw  on  a  bolder  party  the  onus  of  an 
initiative.  Thus  we  do  not  carry  a  counsel  in 
our  breasts,  or  do  not  know  it ;  and  because  we 
cannot  shake  off  from  our  shoes  this  dust  of  Eu 
rope  and  Asia,  the  world  seems  to  be  born  old, 
society  is  under  a  spell,  every  man  is  a  borrower 
and  a  mimic,  life  is  theatrical,  and  literature  a 
quotation ;  and  hence  that  depression  of  spirits, 
that  furrow  of  care,  said  to  mark  every  American 
brow. 

i.  Self- trust  is  the_jSrst__  secret  of  success,  the  be 
lief  that,  if  you  are  here,  the  authorities  of  the 
universe  put  you  here,  and  for  cause,  or  with  some" 
task  strictly  appointed  you  in  your  constitution,  and 
so  long  as  you  work  at  that  you  are  well  and  suc- 
^essful.  It  by  no  means  consists  in  rushing  prema 
turely  to  a  showy  feat  that  shall  catch  the  eye  and 


262  SUCCESS. 

satisfy  spectators.  It  is  enough  if  you  work  in  the 
right  direction.  So  far  from  the  performance  being 
the  real  success,  it  is  clear  that  the  success  was 
much  earlier  than  that,  namely,  when  all  the  feats 
that  make  our  civility  were  the  thoughts  of  good 
heads.  The  fame  of  each  discovery  rightly  attaches 
to  the  mind  that  made  the  formula  which  contains 
all  the  details,  and  not  to  the  manufacturers  who 
now  make  their  gain  by  it ;  although  the  mob  uni 
formly  cheers  the  publisher,  and  not  the  inventor. 
It  is  the  dulness  of  the  multitude  that  they  cannot 
see  the  house,  in  the  ground- plan  ;  the  working, 
in  the  model  of  the  projector.  Whilst  it  is  a 
thought,  though  it  were  a  new  fuel,  or  a  new  food, 
or  the  creation  of  agriculture,  it  is  cried  down  ;  it 
is  a  chimera :  but  when  it  is  a  fact,  and  comes  in 
the  shape  of  eight  per  cent,  ten  per  cent,  a  hun 
dred  per  cent,  they  cry,  '  It  is  the  voice  of  God.' 
Horatio  Greenough,  the  sculptor,  said  to  me  of 
Robert  Fulton's  visit  to  Paris :  "  Fulton  knocked  at 
the  door  of  Napoleon  with  steam,  and  was  rejected  ; 
and  Napoleon  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  he 
had  excluded  a  greater  power  than  his  own." 

Is  there  no  loving  of  knowledge,  and  of  art,  and 
of  our  design,  for  itself  alone  ?  Cannot  we  please 
ourselves  with  performing  our  work,  or  gaining  truth 
and  power,  without  being  praised  for  it  ?  I  gain  my 
j)oint,I  gain  all  points,  if  I  can  reach  my  companion 
with  any  statement  which  teaches  him  his  own  worth. 


SUCCESS.  263 

The  sum  of  wisdom  is,  that  the  time  is  never  lost 
that  is  devoted  to  work.  The  good  workman  never 
says,  '  There,  that  will  do ' ;  but,  4  There,  that  is  it : 
try  it,  and  come  again,  it  will  last  always.'  If 
the  artist,  in  whatever  art,  is  well  at  work  on  his 
own  design,  it  signifies  little  that  he  does  not  yet 
find  orders  or  customers.  I  pronounce  that  young 
man  happy  who  is  content  with  having  acquired  the 
skill  which  he  had  aimed  at,  and  waits  willingly 
when  the  occasion  of  making  it  appreciated  shall 
arrive,  knowing  well  that  it  will  not  loiter.  The 
time  your  rival  spends  in  dressing  up  his  work  for 
effect,  hastily,  and  for  the  market,  you  spend  in 
study  and  experiments  towards  real  knowledge 
and  efficiency.  He  has  thereby  sold  his  picture 
or  machine,  or  won  the  prize,  or  got  the  appoint 
ment  ;  but  you  have  raised  yourself  into  a  higher 
school  of  art,  and  a  few  years  will  show  the  advan 
tage  of  the  real  master  over  the  short  popularity  of 
the  showman.  I  know  it  is  a  nice  point  to  discrimi 
nate Lathis  seJf-trjusV^dlidLis  the  pledge  of  all  mental 
vigor  and  performance,  from  the  disease  to  which  it 
is  allied^  —  the  exaggeration  of  foa  pq.yt  which  we 
can__plajr  ;  —  yet  they  are  two  things.  But  it  is 
sanity  to  know,  that,  over  my  talent  or  knack,  and 
a  million  times  better  than  any  talent,  isjthe.  cejitpal 
inHJigenff1  which  subordinates  and  uses  all  talents  : 
and  it  is  only  as  a  door  into  this,  that  any  talent  or 
the  knowledge  it  gives  is  of  value.  He  only  who 


264  SUCCESS. 

comes  into  this  central  intelligence,  in  which  no 
egotism  or  exaggeration  can  be,  comes  into  self- 
possession. 

My  next  point  is  that,  in  the  scale  of  powers,  it 
is  not  talent,  but_sensibility,  which  is  bestj.  talent 
confines,  but  th^jcejitr^ljife  puts  us  in  relation-to 
aJL  How  often  it  seems  the  chief  good  to  be  born 
with  a  cheerful  iemper,  and  well  adjusted  to  the 
tone  of  the  human  race.  Such  a  man  feels  him 
self  in  h&wminy,  and  conscious  by  his  receptivity 
of  an  infinite  strength.  Like  Alfred,  "  good  fortune 
accompanies  him  like  a  gift  of  God."  Feel  your 
self,  an dJbe  .nat^daun ted  by  things .  'T  is  the  ful 
ness  of  man  that  runs  over  into  objects,  and  makes 
his  Bibles  and  Shakspeares  and  Homers  so  great. 
The  joyful  reader  borrows  of  his  own  ideas  to  fill 
their  faulty  outline,  and  knows  not  that  he  borrows 
and  gives. 

There  is  something  of  poverty  in  our  criticism. 
We  assume  that  there  are  few  great  men,  all  the 
rest  are  little  ;  that  there  is  but  one  Homer,  but 
one  Shakspeare,  one  Newton,  one  Socrates.  But 
the  soul  in  her  beaming  hour  does  not  acknowl 
edge  these  usurpations.  We  should  know  how  to 
praise  Socrates,  or  Plato,  or  Saint  John,  without 
impoverishing  us.  In  good  hours  we  do  not  find 
Shakspeare  or  Homer  over-great,  —  only  to  have 
been  translators  of  the  happy  present,  — _and  every 
ma^n  and  woman  IJiylrifi^in^SLbiJitifts.  'T  is  the  good 


SUCCESS.  265 

reader  that  makes  the  good  book  ;  a  good  head  can 
not  read  amiss  :  in  every  book  he  finds  passages 
which  seem  confidences  or  asides  hidden  from  all 
else  and  unmistakably  meant  for  his  ear. 

The  light  by  which  we  see  in  this  world  comes  out 
from  the  soul  of  the  observer.  Wherever  any  no 
ble  sentiment  dwelt,  it  made  the  faces  and  houses 
around  to  shine.  Nay,  the  powers  of  this  busy  brain 
are  miraculous  and  illimitable.  Therein  are  the 
rules  and  formulas  by  which  the  whole  empire  of 
matter  is  worked  There  is  no  prosperity,  trade, 
art,  city,  or  great  material  wealth  of  any  kind,  but 
if  you  trace  it  home,  you  will  find  it  rooted  in  a 
thought  of  some  individual  man. 

Is  all  life  a  surface  affair  ?  'T  is  curious,  but  our 
difference  of  wit  appears  to  be  only  a  difference 
of  impressionability,  or  power  to  appreciate  faint, 
fainter,  and  infinitely  faintest  voices  and  visions. 
When  the  scholar  or  the  writer  has  pumped  his 
brain  for  thoughts  and  verses,  and  then  comes  abroad 
into  Nature,  has  he  never  found  that  there  is  a 
better  poetry  hinted  in  a  boy's  whistle  of  a  tune,  or 
in  the  piping  of  a  sparrow,  than  in  all  his  literary 
results  ?  We  call  it  health.  What  is  so  admirable  as 
the  healtlLof  yojjth?  —  with  his  long  days  because  his 
eyes  are  good,  and  brisk  circulations  keep  him  warm 
in  cold  rooms,  and  he  loves  books  that  speak  to  the 
imagination ;  and  he  can  read  Plato,  covered  to  his 
chin  with  a  cloak  in  a  cold  upper  chamber,  though 


266  SUCCESS. 

he  should  associate  the  Dialogues  ever  after  with  a 
woollen  smell.  'T  is  the  bane  of  life  that  natural 
effects  are  continually  crowded  out,  and  artificial  ar 
rangements  substituted.  We  remember  when,  in 
early  youth,  the  earth  spoke  and  the  heavens  glowed  ; 
when  an  evening,  any  evening,  grim  and  wintry, 
sleet  and  snow,  was  enough  for  us  ;  the  houses 
were  in  the  air.  Now  it  costs  a  rare  combination 
of  clouds  and  lights  to  overcome  the  common  and 
mean.  What  is  it  we  look  for  in  the  landscape,  in 
sunsets  and  sunrises,  in  the  sea  and  the  firmament  ? 
what  but  a  compensation  for  the  cramp  and  petti 
ness  of  human  performances  ?  We  bask  in  the  day, 
and  the  mind  finds  somewhat  as  great  as  itself.  In 
Nature,  all  is  large,  massive  repose.  Remember 
what  befalls  a  city  boy  who  goes  for  the  first  time 
into  the  October  woods.  He  is  suddenly  initiated 
into  a  pomp  and  glory  that  brings  to  pass  for  him  the 
dreams  of  romance.  He  is  the  king  he  dreamed 
he  was  ;  he  walks  through  tents  of  gold,  through 
bowers  of  crimson,  porphyry,  and  topaz,  pavilion 
on  pavilion,  garlanded  with  vines,  flowers,  and  sun 
beams,  with  incense  and  music,  with  so  many  hints 
to  his  astonished  senses  ;  the  leaves  twinkle  and 
pique  and  flatter  him,  and  his  eye  and  step  are 
tempted  on  by  what  hazy  distances  to  happier  soli 
tudes.  All  this  happiness  he  owes  only  to  his  finer 
perception.  The  owner  of  the  wood-lot  finds  only  a 
number  of  discolored  trees,  and  says,  '  They  ought 


SUCCESS.  267 

to  come  down ;  they  are  n't  growing  any  better ; 
they  should  be  cut  and  corded  before  spring.' 

Wordsworth  writes  of  the  delights  of  the  boy  in 
Nature  :  — 

"  For  never  will  come  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower." 

But  I  have  just  seen  a  man,  well  knowing  what  he 
spoke  of,  wljo  told  me  that  the  verse  was  not  true 
for  him ;  that  his  eyes  opened  as  he  grew  older,  and 
that,  every  spring  was  more  beautiful  to  him  than 
the  last.. 

We  live  amonggods  of  our  own  creation.  Does 
that  deep-toned  bell,  which  has  shortened  many  a 
night  of  ill  nerves,  render  to  you  nothing  but  acous 
tic  vibrations  ?  Is  the  old  church,  which  gave  you 
the  first  lessons  of  religious  life,  or  the  village  school, 
or  the  college  where  you  first  knew  the  dreams 
of  fancy  and  joys  of  thought,  only  boards  or  brick 
and  mortar  ?  Is  the  house  in  which  you  were  born, 
or  the  house  in  which  your  dearest  friend  lived,  only 
a  piece  of  real  estate  whose  value  is  covered  by  the 
Hartford  insurance  ?  You  walk  on  the  beach  and 
enjoy  the  animation  of  the  picture.  Scoop  up  a 
little  water  in  the  hollow  of  your  palm,  take  up  a 
handful  of  shore  sand  ;  well,  these  are  the  elements. 
What  is  the  beach  but  acres  of  sand  ?  what  is  the 
ocean  but  cubic  miles  of  water  ?  a  little  more  or 
less  signifies  nothing.  No,  it  is  that  this  brute  mat 
ter  is  part  of  somewhat  not  brute.  It  is  that  the 


268  SUCCESS. 

sand  floor  is  held  by  spheral  gravity,  and  bent  to  be 
a  part  of  the  round  globe,  under  the  optical  sky,  — 
part  of  the  astonishing  astronomy,  and  existing,  at 
last,  to  moral  ends  and  from  moral  causes. 

The  world  is  not  made  up  to  the  eye  of  fig 
ures,  that  is,  only  half;  it  is  also  made  of  color. 
How  that  element  washes  the  universe  with  its 
enchanting  waves  !  The  sculptor  had  ended  his 
work,  and  behold  a  new  world  of  dream-like  glory. 
'T  is  the  last  stroke  of  Nature  ;  beyond  color  she 
cannot  go.  In  like  manner,  life  is  made  up,  not  of 
knowledge  only,  but  of  love  also.  If  thought  is 
form,  sentiment  is  color.  It  clothes  the  skeleton 
world  with  space,  variety,  and  glow.  The  hues  of 
sunset  make  life  great ;  so  the  affections  make  some 
little  web  of  cottage  and  fireside  populous,  impor 
tant,  and  filling  the  main  space  in  our  history. 

The  fundamental  fact  in  our  metaphysic  constitu 
tion  is  the  correspondence  of  man  to  the  world,  so 
that  every  change  in  that  writes  a  record  in  the 
mind.  The  mind  yields  sympathetically  to  the 
tendencies  or  law  which  stream  through  things,  and 
make  the  order  of  nature  ;  and  in  the  perfection 
of  this  correspondence  or  expressiveness,  the  health 
and  force  of  man  consist.  If  we  follow  this  hint 
into  our  intellectual  education,  we  shall  find  that  it 
is  not  propositions,  not  new  dogmas  and  a  logical 
exposition  of  the  world,  that  are  our  first  need ; 
but  to  watch  and  tenderly  cherish  the  intellectual 


SUCCESS.  269 

and  moral  sensibilities,  those  fountains  of  right 
thought,  and  woo  them  to  stay  and  make  their 
home  with  us.  Whilst  they  abide  with  us,  we  shall 
not  think  amiss.  Our  perception  far  outruns  our 
talent.  We  bring  a  welcome  to  the  highest  lessons 
of  religion  and  of  poetry  out  of  all  proportion  be 
yond  our  skill  to  teach,  ^nd^..  further,  the  great 
hearing  and  sympathy  of  men  is  more  true  and  wise 
than  their  speaking  is  wont  to  he.  A  deep  sym 
pathy  is  what  we  require  for  any  student  of  the 
mind  ;  for  the  chief  difference  between  man  and 
man  is  a  difference  of  impressionability.  Aristotle, 
or  Bacon,  or  Kant  propound  some  maxim  which  is 
the  key-note  of  philosophy  thenceforward.  But  I 
am  more  interested  to  know,  that,  when  at  last  they 
have  hurled  out  their  grand  word,  it  is  only  some 
familiar  experience  of  every  man  in  the  street.  If 
it  be  not,  it  will  never  be  heard  of  again. 
/yAh  !  if  one  could  keep  this  sensibility,  and  live  in 
the  happy  sufficing  present,  and  find  the  day  and 
its  cheap  means  contenting,  which  only  ask  recep 
tivity  in  you,  and  no  strained  exertion  and  canker 
ing  ambition,  overstimulating  to  be  at  the  head  of 
your  class  and  the  head  of  society,  and  to  have 
distinction  and  laurels  and  consumption  !  We  are 
not  strong  by  our  power  to  penetrate,  but  by  our 
relatedness.  The  world  is  enlarged  for  us,  not  by 
new  objects,  but  by  finding  more  affinities  and  po 
tencies  in  those  we  have.  \\ 


270  -  SUCCESS. 

This  sensibility  appears  in  the  homage  to  beauty 
which  exalts  the  faculties  of  youth,  in  the  power 
which  form  and  color  exert  upon  the  soul  ;  when 
we  see  eyes  that  are  a  compliment  to  the  human 
race,  features  that  explain  the  Phidian  sculpture. 
Fontenelle  said :  "  There  are  three  things  about 
which  I  have  curiosity,  though  I  know  nothing  of 
them,  —  music,  poetry,  and  love."  The  great  doc 
tors  of  this  science  are  the  greatest  men,  —  Dante, 
Petrarch,.  Michel  Angelo,  and  Shakspeare.  The 
wise  Socrates  treats  this  matter  with  a  certain  arch 
ness,  yet  with  very  marked  expressions.  "I  am 
always,"  he  says,  "  asserting  that  I  happen  to  know, 
I  may  say,  nothing  but  a  mere  trifle  relating  to 
matters  of  love  ;  yet  in  that  kind  of  learning  I  lay 
claim  to  being  more  skilled  than  any  one  man  of 
the  past  or  present  time."  They  may  well  speak 
in  this  uncertain  manner  of  their  knowledge,  and 
in  this  confident  manner  of  their  will,  for  the  secret 
of  it  is  hard  to  detect,  so  deep  it  is ;  and  yet  genius 
is  measured  by  its  skill  in  this  science. 

Who  is  he  in  youth,  or  in  maturity,  or  even  in 
old  age,  who  does  not  like  to  hear  of  those  sensi 
bilities  which  turn  curled  heads  round  at  church, 
and  send  wonderful  eye-beams  across  assemblies, 
from  one  to  one,  never  missing  in  the  thickest 
crowd.  The  keen  statist  reckons  by  tens  and  hun 
dreds  ;  the  genial  man  is  interested  in  every  slipper 
that  comes  into  the  assembly.  The  passion,  alike 


SUCCESS.  271 

everywhere,  creeps  under  the  snows  of  Scandinavia, 
under  the  fires  of  the  equator,  and  swims  in  the 
seas  of  Polynesia.  Lofn  is  as  puissant  a  divinity  in 
the  Norse  Edda  as  Camadeva  in  the  red  vault  of 
India,  Eros  in  the  Greek,  or  Cupid  in  the  Latin 
heaven.  And  what  is  specially  true  of  love  is,  that 
it  is  a  state  of  extreme  impressionability  ;  the  lover 
has  more  senses  and  finer  senses  than  others ;  his 
eye  and  ear  are  telegraphs ;  he  reads  omens  on  the 
flower,  and  cloud,  and  face,  and  form,  and  gesture, 
and  reads  them  aright.  In  his  surprise  at  the  sud 
den  and  entire  understanding  that  is  between  him 
and  the  beloved  person,  it  occurs  to  him  that  they 
might  somehow  meet  independently  of  time  and 
place.  How  delicious  the  belief  that  he  could  elude 
all  guards,  precautions,  ceremonies,  means,  and  de 
lays,  and  hold  instant  and  sempiternal  communica 
tion  !  In  solitude,  in  banishment,  the  hope  returned, 
and  the  experiment  was  eagerly  tried.  The  supernal 
powers  seem  to  take  his  part.  What  was  on  his 
lips  to  say  is  uttered  by  his  friend.  When  he  went 
abroad,  he  met,  by  wonderful  casualties,  the  one 
person  he  sought.  If  in  his  walk  he  chanced  to 
look  back,  his  friend  was  walking  behind  him.  And 
it  has  happened  that  the  artist  has  often  drawn  in 
his  pictures  the  face  of  the  future  wife  whom  he 
had  not  yet  seen. 

But  also  in  complacences,  nowise  so  strict  as  this 
of  the  passion,  the  man  of  sensibility  counts  it  a 


272  SUCCESS. 

delight  only  to  hear  a  child's  voice  fully  addressed 
to  him,  or  to  see  the  beautiful  manners  of  tho 
youth  of  either  sex.  When  the  event  is  past  and 
remote,  how  insignificant  the  greatest  compared 
with  the  piquancy  of  the  present !  To-day  at  the 
school  examination  the  professor  interrogates  Syl- 
vina  in  the  history  class  ahout  Odoacer  and  Alaric. 
Sylvina  can't  remember,  but  suggests  that  Odoacer 
was  defeated;  and  the  professor  tartly  replies,  "  No, 
he  defeated  the  Romans."  But  't  is  plain  to  the 
visitor,  that  't  is  of  no  importance  at  all  about  Odo 
acer,  and  't  is  a  great  deal  of  importance  about 
Sylvina  ;  and  if  she  says  he  was  defeated,  why  ho 
had  better,  a  great  deal,  have  been  defeated,  than 
give  her  a  moment's  annoy.  Odoacer,  if  there  was 
a  particle  of  the  gentleman  in  him,  would  have  said, 
Let  me  be  defeated  a  thousand  times. 

And  as  our  tenderness  for  youth  and  beauty  gives 
a  new  and  just  importance  to  their  fresh  and  mani 
fold  claims,  so  the  like  sensibility  gives  welcome  to 
all  excellence,  has  eyes  and  hospitality  for  merit  in 
corners.  An  Englishman  of  marked  character  and 
talent,  who  had  brought  with  him  hither  one  or  two 
friends  and  a  library  of  mystics,  assured  me  that 
nobody  and  nothing  of  possible  interest  was  left  in 
England,  —  he  had  brought  all  that  was  alive  away. 
I  was  forced  to  reply :  "  No,  next  door  to  you,  prob 
ably,  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition  in  the  same 
house,  was  a  greater  man  than  any  you  had  seen." 


v 

SUCCESS.         f '  - 

r 

Every  man  has  a   history  worth  knowing/  ft 

could  tell  it,  or  if  we  could  draw  it  from  him\  / 
Character  and  wit  have  their  own  magnetism. 
Send  a  deep  man  into  any  town,  and  he  will  find 
another  deep  man  there,  unknown  hitherto  to  his 
neighbors.  That  is  the  great  happiness  of  life,  — 
to  add  to  our  high  acquaintances.  The  very  law 
of  averages  might  have  assured  you  that  there  will 
be  in  every  hundred  heads,  say  ten  or  five  good 
heads.  Morals  are  generated  as  the  atmosphere  is. 
'T  is  a  secret,  the  genesis  of  either ;  but  the  springs 
of  justice  and  courage  do  not  fail  any  more  than 
salt  or  sulphur  springs. 

The  world  is  always  opulent,  the  oracles  are 
never  silent ;  but  the  receiver  must  by  a  happy 
temperance  be  brought  to  that  top  of  condition,  that 
frolic  health,  that  he  can  easily  take  and  give  these 
fine  communications.  Health  is  the  condition  of 
wisdom,  and  the  sign  is  cheerfulness,  —  an  open 
and  noble  temper.  .  There  was  never  poet  who  had 
not  the  heart  in  the  right  place.  The  old  trouveur, 
Pons  Capdueil,  wrote,  — 

"  Oft  hare  I  heard,  and  deem  the  witness  true, 
Whom  man  delights  in,  God  delights  in  too." 

All  beauty  warms  the  heart,  is  a  sign  of  health, 
prosperity,  and  the  favor  of  God.  Everything 
lasting  and  fit  for  men,  the  Divine  Power  has 
marked  with  this  stamp.  What  delights,  what 
emancipates,  not  what  scares  and  pains  us,  is  wise 


274  SUCCESS. 

and  good  in  speech  and  in  the  arts.  For,  truly,  the 
heart  at  the  centre  of  the  universe  with  every 
throb  hurls  the  flood  of  happiness  into  every  artery, 
vein,  and  veinlet,  so  that  the  whole  system  is  inun 
dated  with  the  tides  of  joy.  The  plenty  of  the 
poorest  place  is  too  great :  the  harvest  cannot  be 
gathered.  Every  sound  ends  in  music.  The  edge 
of  every  surface  is  tinged  with  prismatic  rays. 

One  more  trait  of  true  success.  The  good  mind 
chooses  what  is  positive,  what  is  advancing,  —  em 
braces  the  affirmative.  Our  system  is  one  of  pov 
erty.  'Tis  presumed,  as  I  said,  there  is  but  one 
Shakspeare,  one  Homer,  one  Jesus,  —  not  that  all 
are  or  shall  be  inspired.  But  we  must  begin  by  af 
firming.  Truth  and  goodness  subsist  forevermore. 
It  is  true  there  is  evil  and  good,  night  and  day : 
but  these  are  not  equal.  The  day  is  great  and  final. 
The  night  is  for  the  day,  but  the  day  is  not  for  the 
night.  What  is  this  immortal  demand  for  more, 
which  belongs  to  our  constitution  ?  this  enormous 
ideal  ?  There  is  no  such  critic  and  beggar  as  this 
terrible  Soul.  No  historical  person  begins  to  content 
us.  We  know  the  satisfactoriness  of  justice,  the 
sufficiency  of  truth.  We  know  the  answer  that 
leaves  nothing  to  ask.  We  know  the  Spirit  by  its 
victorious  tone.  The  searching  tests  to  apply  to 
every  new  pretender  are  amount  and  quality,  — 
what  does  he  add  ?  and  what  is  the  state  of  mind 
he  leaves  me  in  ?  Your  theory  is  unimportant ;  but 


SUCCESS.  275 

what  new  stock  you  can  add  to  humanity,  or  how- 
high  you  can  carry  life  ?  A  man  is  a  man  only  as 
he  makes  life  and  nature  happier  to  us. 

I  fear  the  popular  notion  of  success  stands  in  di 
rect  opposition  in  all  points  to  the  real  and  whole 
some  success.  One  adores  public  opinion,  the  other 
private  opinion ;  one  fame,  the  other  desert ; 
one  feats,  the  other  humility ;  one  lucre,  the  other 
love  ;  one  monopoly,  and  the  other  hospitality  of 
mind. 

We  may  apply  this  affirmative  law  to  letters,  to 
manners,  to  art,  to  the  decorations  of  our  houses, 
etc.  I  do  not  find  executions  or  tortures  or  lazar- 
houses,  or  grisly  photographs  of  the  field  on  the  day 
after  the  battle  fit  subjects  for  cabinet  pictures.  I 
think  that  some  so-called  "  sacred  subjects  "  must  be 
treated  with  more  genius  than  I  have  seen  in  the 
masters  of  Italian  or  Spanish  art  to  be  right  pictures 
for  houses  and  churches.  Nature  does  not  invite 
such  exhibition.  Nature  lays  the  ground-plan  of 
each  creature  accurately,  —  sternly  fit  for  all  his 
functions  ;  then  veils  it  scrupulously.  See  how  care 
fully  she  covers  up  the  skeleton.  The  eye  shall  not 
see  it :  the  sun  shall  not  shine  on  it.  She  weaves 
her  tissues  and  integuments  of  flesh  and  skin  and 
hair  and  beautiful  colors  of  the  day  over  it,  and 
forces  death  down  underground,  and  makes  haste  to 
cover  it  up  with  leaves  and  vines,  and  wipes  care 
fully  out  every  trace  by  new  creation.  Who  and 


276  SUCCESS. 

what  ar&  you  that  would  lay  the  ghastly  anatomy 
bare? 

Don't  hang  a  dismal  picture  on  the  wall,  and  do 
not  daub  with  sables  and  glooms  in  your  conversa 
tion.  Don't  be  a  cynic  and  disconsolate  preacher. 
Don't  bewail  and  bemoan.  Omit  the  negative 
propositions.  Nerve  us  with  incessant  affirmatives. 
Don't  waste  yourself  in  rejection,  nor  bark  against 
the  bad,  but  chant  the  beauty  of  the  good.  When 
that  is  spoken  which  has  a  right  to  be  spoken, 
the  chatter  and  the  criticism  will  stop.  Set  down 
nothing  that  will  not  help  somebody; 

"  For  every  gift  of  noble  origin 
Is  breathed  upon  by  Hope's  perpetual  breath." 

The  affirmative  of  affirmatives  is  love.  As  much 
love,  so  much  perception.  As  caloric  to  matter,  so 
is  love  to  mind  ;  so  it  enlarges,  and  so  it  empowers 
it.  Good-will  makes  insight,  as  one  finds  his  way 
to  the  sea  by  embarking  on  a  river.  I  have  seen 
scores  of  people  who  can  silence  me,  but  I  seek  one 
who  shall  make  me  forget  or  overcome  the  frigidi 
ties  and  imbecilities  into  which  I  fall.  The  painter 
Giotto,  Vasari  tells  us,  renewed  art,  because  he  put 
more  goodness  into  his  heads.  To  awake  in  man 
and  to  raise  the  sense  of  worth,  to  educate  his  feel 
ing  and  judgment  so  that  he  shall  scorn  himself  for 
a  bad  action,  that  is  the  only  aim. 

'T  is  cheap  and  easy  to  destroy.  There  is  not 
a  joyful  boy  or  an  innocent  girl  buoyant  with 


SUCCESS.  277 

fine  purposes  of  duty,  in  all  the  street  full  of  eager 
and  rosy  faces,  but  a  cynic  can  chill  and  dis 
hearten  with  a  single  word.  Despondency  comes 
readily  enough  to  the  most  sanguine.  The  cynic 
has  only  to  follow  their  hint  with  his  bitter  con 
firmation,  and  they  check  that  eager  courageous 
pace  and  go  home  with  heavier  step  and  pre 
mature  age.  They  will  themselves  quickly  enough 
give  the  hint  he  wants  to  the  cold  wretch.  Which 
of  them  has  not  failed  to  please  where  they  most 
wished  it?  or  blundered  where  they  were  most 
ambitious  of  success  ?  or  found  themselves  awk 
ward  or  tedious  or  incapable  of  study,  thought,  or 
heroism,  and  only  hoped  by  good  sense  and  fidelity 
to  do  what  they  could  and  pass  unblamed  ?  And 
this  witty  malefactor  makes  their  little  hope  less 
with  satire  and  scepticism,  and  slackens  the  springs 
of  endeavor.  Yes,  this  is  easy ;  but  to  help  the 
young  soul,  add  energy,  inspire  hope,  and  blow  the 
coals  into  a  useful  flame ;  to  redeem  defeat  by  new 
thought,  by  firm  action,  that  is  not  easy,  that  is 
tJ^e  work  of  divine  men. 

•  Welive  on  different  planes  or  platforms.  There 
is  an  external  life,  which  is  educated  at  school, 
taught  to  read,  write,  cipher,  and  trade ;  taught  to 
grasp  all  the  boy  can  get,  urging  him  to  put  him 
self  forward,  to  make  himself  useful  and  agreeable 
in  the  world,  to  ride,  run,  argue,  and  contend,  un 
fold  his  talents,  shine,  conquer,  and  possess. 


SUCCESS. 

But  the  inner  life  sits  at  home,  and  does  not  learn  | 
to  do  things,  nor  value  these  feats  at  all.  'T  is  a  J 
quiet,  wise  perception.  It  loves  truth,  because  it  isJ 
itself  real ;  it  loves  right,  it  knows  nothing  else  ; 
but  it  makes  no  progress ;  was  as  wise  in  our  first 
memory  of  it  as  now;  is  just  the  same  now  in 
maturity  and  hereafter  in  age,  it  was  in  youth. 
We  have  grown  to  manhood  and  womanhood ; 
we  have  powers,  connection,  children,  reputa 
tions,  professions :  this  makes  no  account  of  them 
all.  It  lives  in  the  great  present;  it  makes  the 
present  great.  This  tranquil,  well-founded,  wide^ 
seeing  soul  is  no  express-rider,  no  attorney,  no  mag 
istrate  :  it  lies  in  the  sun,  and  broods  on  the  world. 
A  person  of  this  temper  once  said  to  a  man  of  much 
activity,  "  I  will  pardon  you  that  you  do  so  much, 
and  you  me  that  I  do  nothing.1'  And  Euripides 
says  that  "Zeus  hates  busybodies  and  those  who 
do  too  much." 


OLD   AGE 


OLD    AGE. 

ON  the  anniversary  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  So 
ciety  at  Cambridge,  in  1861,  the  venerable  Presi 
dent  Quincy,  senior  member  of  the  Society,  as  well 
as  senior  alumnus  of  the  University,  was  received 
at  the  dinner  with  peculiar  demonstrations  of  re 
spect.  He  replied  to  these  compliments  in  a  speech, 
and,  gracefully  claiming  the  privileges  of  a  literary 
society,  entered  at  some  length  into  an  Apology  for 
Old  Age,  and,  aiding  himself  by  notes  in  his  hand, 
made  a  sort  of  running  commentary  on  Cicero's 
chapter  "  De  Senectute."  The  character  of  the 
speaker,  the  transparent  good  faith  of  his  praise  and 
blame,  and  the  naivete  of  his  eager  preference  of 
Cicero's  opinions  to  King  David's,  gave  unusual  in 
terest  to  the  College  festival.  It  was  a  discourse 
full  of  dignity,  honoring  him  who  spoke  and  those 
who  heard. 

The  speech  led  me  to  look  over  at  home  —  an 
easy  task  —  Cicero's  famous  essay,  charming  by  its 
uniform  rhetorical  merit ;  heroic  with  Stoical  pre 
cepts  ;  with  a  Roman  eye  to  the  claims  of  the  State  ; 
happiest,  perhaps,  in  his  praise  of  life  on  the  farm ; 


282  OLD   AGE. 

and  rising  at  the  conclusion  to  a  lofty  strain.  But 
he  does  not  exhaust  the  subject ;  rather  invites  the 
attempt  to  add  traits  to  the  picture  from  our  broader 
modern  life. 

Cicero  makes  no  reference  to  the  illusions  which 
cling  to  the  element  of  time,  and  in  which  Nature 
delights.  Wellington,  in  speaking  of  military  men, 
said,  "  What  masks  are  these  uniforms  to  hide 
cowards  !  "  I  have  often  detected  the  like  decep 
tion  in  the  cloth  shoe,  wadded  pelisse,  wig,  spec 
tacles,  and  padded  chair  of  Age.  Nature  lends 
herself  to  these  illusions,  and  adds  dim  sight,  deaf 
ness,  cracked  voice,  snowy  hair,  short  memory  and 
sleep.  These  also  are  masks,  and  all  is  not  Age 
that  wears  them.  Whilst  we  yet  call  ourselves 
young,  and  our  mates  are  yet  youths  with  even 
boyish  remains,  one  good  fellow  in  the  set  prema 
turely  sports  a  gray  or  a  bald  head,  wThich  does  not 
impose  on  us  who  know  how  innocent  of  sanctity 
or  of  Platonism  he  is,  but  does  deceive  his  juniors 
and  the  public,  who  presently  distinguish  him  with 
a  most  amusing  respect :  and  this  lets  us  into  the 
secret,  that  the  venerable  forms  that  so  awed  our 
childhood  were  just  such  impostors.  Nature  is  full 
of  freaks,  and  now  puts  an  old  head  on  young 
shoulders,  and  then  a  young  heart  beating  under 
fourscore  winters. 

For  if  the  essence  of  age  is  not  present,  these 
signs,  whether  of  Art  or  Nature,  are  counterfeit 


OLD  AGE.  283 

and  ridiculous :  and  the  essence  of  age  is  intellect. 
Wherever  that  appears,  we  call  it  old.  If  we  look 
into  the  eyes  of  the  youngest  person,  we  sometimes 
discover  that  here  is  one  who  knows  already  what 
you  would  go  about  with  much  pains  to  teach  him  ; 
there  is  that  in  him  which  is  the  ancestor  of  all 
around  him  :  which  fact  the  Indian  Vedas  express 
when  they  say,  "  He  that  can  discriminate  is  the 
father  of  his  father."  And  in  our  old  British 
legends  of  Arthur  and  the  Round  Tahle,  his  friend 
and  counsellor,  Merlin  the  Wise,  is  a  babe  found  ex 
posed  in  a  basket  by  the  river-side,  and,  though  an 
infant  of  only  a  few  days,  speaks  articulately  to 
those  who  discover  him,  tells  his  name  and  history, 
and  presently  foretells  the  fate  of  the  by-standers. 
Wherever  there  is  power,  there  is  age.  Don't  be 
deceived  by  dimples  and  curls.  I  tell  you  that 
babe  is  a  thousand  years  old. 

Time  is,  indeed,  the  theatre  and  seat  of  illu 
sion  :  nothing  is  so  ductile  and  elastic.  The  mind 
stretches  an  hour  to  a  century,  and  dwarfs  an 
age  to  an  hour.  Saadi  found  in  a  mosque  at 
Damascus  an  old  Persian  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  who  was  dying,  and  was  saying  to  himself, 
u  I  said,  coming  into  the  world  by  birth,  4  I  will  en 
joy  myself  for  a  few  moments.'  Alas  !  at  the  va 
riegated  table  of  life  I  partook  of  a  few  mouthfuls, 
and  the  Fates  said,  (  Enough! ' '  That  which  does 
not  decay  is  so  central  and  controlling  in  us,  that,  as 


284  OLD   AGE. 

long  as  one  is  alone  by  himself,  he  is  not  sensible  of 
the  inroads  of  time,  which  always  begin  at  the  sur 
face-edges.  If,  on  a  winter  day,  you  should  stand 
within  a  bell-glass,  the  face  and  color  of  the  after 
noon  clouds  would  not  indicate  whether  it  were 
June  or  January  ;  and  if  we  did  not  find  the  reflec 
tion  of  ourselves  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  people,  we 
could  not  know  that  the  century-clock  had  struck 
seventy  instead  of  twenty.  How  many  men  habit 
ually  believe  that  each  chance  passenger  with  whom 
they  converse  is  of  their  own  age,  and  presently 
find  it  was  his  father,  and  not  his  brother,  whom 
they  knew  ! 

But  not  to  press  too  hard  on  these  deceits  and 
illusions  of  Nature,  which  are  inseparable  from  our 
condition,  and  looking  at  age  under  an  aspect  more 
conformed  to  the  common  sense,  if  the  question  be 
the  felicity  of  age,  I  fear  the  first  popular  judgments 
will  be  unfavorable.  From  the  point  of  sensuous 
experience,  seen  from  the  streets  and  markets  and 
the  haunts  of  pleasure  and  gain,  the  estimate  of  age 
is  low,  melancholy,  and  sceptical.  Frankly  face 
the  facts,  and  see  the  result.  Tobacco,  coffee,  alco 
hol,  hashish,  prussic  acid,  strychnine,  are  weak  dilu 
tions  :  the  surest  poison  is  time.  This  cup,  which 
Nature  puts  to  our  lips,  has  a  wonderful  virtue,  sur 
passing  that  of  any  other  draught.  It  opens  the 
senses,  adds  power,  fills  us  with  exalted  dreams,  which 
we  call  hope,  love,  ambition,  science :  especially,  it 


OLD  AGE.  285 

creates  a  craving  for  larger  draughts  of  itself.  But 
they  who  take  the  larger  draughts  are  drunk  with  it, 
lose  their  stature,  strength,  beauty,  and  senses,  and 
end  in  folly  and  delirium.  We  postpone  our  literary 
work  until  we  have  more  ripeness  and  skill  to  write, 
and  we  one  day  discover  that  our  literary  talent  was 
a  youthful  effervescence  which  we  have  now  lost. 
We  had  a  judge  in  Massachusetts  who  at  sixty  pro 
posed  to  resign,  alleging  that  he  perceived  a  certain 
decay  in  his  faculties  ;  he  was  dissuaded  by  his 
friends,  on  account  of  the  public  convenience  at 
that  time.  At  seventy  it  was  hinted  to  him  that  it 
was  time  to  retire  ;  but  he  now  replied,  that  he 
thought  his  judgment  as  robust,  and  all  his  faculties 
as  good  as  ever  they  were.  But  besides  the  self- 
deception,  the  strong  and  hasty  laborers  of  the  street 
do  not  work  well  with  the  chronic  valetudinarian. 
Youth  is  everywhere  in  place.  Age,  like  woman, 
requires  fit  surroundings.  Age  is  comely  in  coaches, 
in  churches,  in  chairs  of  state,  and  ceremony,  in 
council-chambers,  in  courts  of  justice,  and  histori 
cal  societies.  Age  is  becoming  in  the  country. 
But  in  the  rush  and  uproar  of  Broadway,  if  you 
look  into  tlie  faces  of  the  passengers,  there  is  dejec 
tion  or  indignation  in  the  seniors,  a  certain  con 
cealed  sense  of  injury,  and  the  lip  made  up  with 
a  heroic  determination  not  to  mind  it.  Few  envy 
the  consideration  enjoyed  by  the  oldest  inhabitant. 
We  do  not  count  a  man's  years,  until  he  has  noth- 


286  OLD  AGE. 

ing  else  to  count.  The  vast  inconvenience  of  ani 
mal  immortality  was  told  in  the  fable  of  Tithonus. 
In  short,  the  creed  of  the  street  is,  Old  Age  is  not 
disgraceful,  but  immensely  disadvantageous.  Life 
is  well  enough,  but  we  shall  all  be  glad  to  get  out  of 
it,  and  they  will  all  be  glad  to  have  us. 

This  is  odious  on  the  face  of  it.  Universal  con 
victions  are  not  to  be  shaken  by  the  whimseys  of 
overfed  butchers  and  firemen,  or  by  the  sentimental 
fears  of  girls  who  would  keep  the  infantile  bloom  on 
their  cheeks.  We  know  the  value  of  experience. 
Life  and  art  are  cumulative  ;  and  he  who  has  ac 
complished  something  in  any  department  alone  de 
serves  to  be  heard  on  that  subject.  A  man  of  great 
employments  and  excellent  performance  used  to 
assure  me  that  he  did  not  think  a  man  worth  any 
thing  until  he  was  sixty ;  although  this  smacks  a 
little  of  the  resolution  of  a  certain  "  Young  Men's 
Republican  Club,"  that  all  men  should  be  held 
eligible  who  were  under  seventy.  But  in  all  govern 
ments,  the  councils  of  power  were  held  by  the  old ; 
and  patricians  or  pair 'es,  senate  or  senes,  seigneurs  or 
seniors,  gerousia,  the  senate  of  Sparta,  the  presby 
tery  of  the  Church,  and  the  like,  all  signify  simply 
old  men. 

The  cynical  creed  or  lampoon  of  the  market 
is  refuted  by  the  universal  prayer  for  long  life, 
which  is  the  verdict  of  Nature,  and  justified  by 
all  history.  We  have,  it  is  true,  examples  of  an 


OLD  AGE.  287 

accelerated  pace  by  which  young  men  achieved 
grand  works  ;  as  in  the  Macedonian  Alexander,  in 
Raffaelle,  Shakspeare,  Pascal,  Burns,  and  Byron ; 
but  these  are  rare  exceptions.  Nature,  in  the  main, 
vindicates  her  law.  Skill  to  do  comes  of  doing ; 
knowledge  comes  by  eyes  always  open,  and  work 
ing  hands ;  and  there  is  no  knowledge  that  is 
not  power.  Beranger  said,  "  Almost  all  the  good 
workmen  live  long."  And  if  the  life  be  true  and 
noble,  we  have  quite  another  sort  of  seniors  than 
the  frowzy,  timorous,  peevish  dotards  who  are  false 
ly  old,  —  namely,  the  men  who  fear  no  city,  but  by 
whom  cities  stand  ;  who  appearing  in  any  street,  the 
people  empty  their  houses  to  gaze  at  and  obey  them  : 
as  at  "  My  Cid,  with  the  fleecy  beard,"  in  Toledo ; 
or  Bruce,  as  Barbour  reports  him  ;  as  blind  old  Dan- 
dolo,  elected  Doge  at  eighty-four  years,  storming 
Constantinople  at  ninety-four,  and  after  the  revolt 
again  victorious,  and  elected  at  the  age  of  ninety-six 
to  the  throne  of  the  Eastern  Empire,  which  he  de 
clined,  and  died  Doge  at  ninety-seven.  We  still 
feel  the  force  of  Socrates,  "  whom  well-advised  the 
oracle  pronounced  wisest  of  men "  ;  of  Archime 
des,  holding  Syracuse  against  the  Romans  by  his 
wit,  and  himself  better  than  all  their  nation  ;  of 
Michel  Angelo,  wearing  the  four  crowns  of  archi 
tecture,  sculpture,  painting,  and  poetry  ;  of  Galileo, 
of  whose  blindness  Castelli  said,  u  The  noblest  eye 
is  darkened  that  Nature  ever  made,  —  an  eye  that 


288  OLD  AGE. 

hath  seen  more  than  all  that  went  before  him,  and 
hath  opened  the  eyes  of  all  that  shall  come  after 
him  "  ;  of  Newton,  who  made  an  important  dis 
covery  for  every  one  of  his  eighty-five  years ;  of 
Bacon,  who  "  took  all  knowledge  to  be  his  prov 
ince  ";  of  Fontenelle,  "  that  precious  porcelain  vase 
laid  up  in  the  centre  of  France  to  be  guarded  with 
the  utmost  care  for  a  hundred  years"  ;  of  Franklin, 
Jefferson,  and  Adams,  the  wise  and  heroic  states 
men  ;  of  Washington,  the  perfect  citizen  ;  of  Wel 
lington,  the  perfect  soldier ;  of  Goethe,  the  all- 
knowing  poet ;  of  Humboldt,  the  encyclopaedia  of 
science. 

Under  the  general  assertion  of  the  well-being  of 
age,  we  can  easily  count  particular  benefits  of  that 
condition.  It  has  weathered  the  perilous  capes  and 
shoals  in  the  sea  whereon  we  sail,  and  the  chief  evil 
of  life  is  taken  away  in  removing  the  grounds  of 
fear.  The  insurance  of  a  ship  expires  as  she  en 
ters  the  harbor  at  home.  It  were  strange,  if  a  man 
should  turn  his  sixtieth  year  without  a  feeling  of 
immense  relief  from  the  number  of  dangers  he  has 
escaped.  When  the  old  wife  says,  *  Take  care  of 
that  tumor  in  your  shoulder,  perhaps  it  is  cancer 
ous,' —  he  replies,  c  I  am  yielding  to  a  surer  decom 
position.'  The  humorous  thief  who  drank  a  pot 
of  beer  at  the  gallows  blew  off  the  froth  because 
he  had  heard  it  was  unhealthy  ;  but  it  will  not  add 
a  pang  to  the  prisoner  marched  out  to  be  shot,  to 


OLD   AGE.  289 

assure  him  that  the  pain  in  his  knee  threatens  mor 
tification.  When  the  pleuro-pneumonia  of  the  cows 
raged,  the  butchers  said,  that,  though  the  acute 
degree  was  novel,  there  never  was  a  time  when 
this  disease  did  not  occur  among  cattle.  All  men 
carry  seeds  of  all  distempers  through  life  latent, 
and  we  die  without  developing  them  ;  such  is  the 
affirmative  force  of  the  constitution  ;  but  if  you  are 
enfeebled  by  any  cause,  some  of  these  sleeping 
seeds  start  and  open.  Meantime,  at  every  stage  we 
lose  a  foe.  At  fifty  years,  'tis  said,  afflicted  citizens 
lose  tlieir  sick-headaches.  I  hope  this  hegira  is  not 
as  movable  a  feast  as  that  one  I  annually  look  for, 
when  the  horticulturists  assure  me  that  the  rose- 
bugs  in  our  gardens  disappear  on  the  tenth  of  July ; 
they  stay  a  fortnight  later  in  mine.  But  be  it  as 
it  may  with  the  sick-headache,  —  't  is  certain  that 
graver  headaches  and  heart-aches  are  lulled  once 
for  all,  as  we  come  up  with  certain  goals  of  time. 
The  passions  have  answered  their  purpose  :  that 
slight  but  dread  overweight,  with  which,  in  each 
instance,  Nature  secures  the  execution  of  her  aim, 
drops  off.  To  keep  man  in  the  planet,  she  im 
presses  the  terror  of  death.  To  perfect  the  com 
missariat,  she  implants  in  each  a  certain  rapacity  to 
get  the  supply,  and  a  little  oversupply,  of  his  wants. 
To  insure  the  existence  of  the  race,  she  reinforces 
the  sexual  instinct,  at  the  risk  of  disorder,  grief,  and 
pain.  To  secure  strength,  she  plants  cruel  hunger 


290  OLD  AGE. 

and  thirst,  which  so  easily  overdo  their  office,  and 
invite  disease.  But  these  temporary  stays  and 
shifts  for  the  protection  of  the  young  animal  are 
shed  as  fast  as  they  can  be  replaced  by  nobler  re 
sources.  We  live  in  youth  amidst  this  rabble  of 
passions,  quite  too  tender,  quite  too  hungry  and 
irritable.  Later,  the  interiors  of  mind  and  heart 
open,  and  supply  grander  motives.  We  learn  the 
fatal  compensations  that  wait  on  every  act.  Then, 
—  one  after  another,  —  this  riotous  time-destroying 
crew  disappear. 

I  count  it  another  capital  advantage  of  age,  this, 
that  a  success  more  or  less  signifies  nothing.  Little 
by  little,  it  has  amassed  such  a  fund  of  merit,  that 
it  can  very  well  afford  to  go  on  its  credit  when  it 
will.  When  I  chanced  to  meet  the  poet  Words 
worth,  then  sixty-three  years  old,  he  told  me,  "  that 
he  had  just  had  a  fall  and  lost  a  tooth,  and,  when 
his  companions  were  much  concerned  for  the  mis 
chance,  he  had  replied,  that  he  was  glad  it  had  not 
happened  forty  years  before."  Well,  Nature  takes 
care  that  we  shall  not  lose  our  organs  forty  years 
too  soon.  A  lawyer  argued  a  cause  yesterday  in 
the  Supreme  Court,  and  I  was  struck  with  a  certain 
air  of  levity  and  defiance  which  vastly  became  him. 
Thirty  years  ago  it  was  a  serious  concern  to  him 
whether  his  pleading  was  good  and  effective.  Now 
it  is  of  importance  to  his  client,  but  of  none  to 
himself.  It  has  been  long  already  fixed  what  he 


OLD   AGE.  291 

can  do  and  cannot  do,  and  his  reputation  does  not 
gain  or  suffer  from  one  or  a  dozen  new  performances. 
If  he  should,  on  a  new  occasion,  rise  quite  beyond 
his  mark,  and  achieve  somewhat  great  and  extraor 
dinary,  that,  of  course,  would  instantly  tell  ;  hut  ho 
may  go  below  his  mark  with  impunity,  and  people 
will  say,  '  O,  he  had  headache,'  or,  4  He  lost  his 
sleep  for  two  nights.*  What  a  lust  of  appearance, 
what  a  load  of  anxieties  that  once  degraded  him,  he 
is  thus  rid  of!  Every  one  is  sensible  of  this  cumu 
lative  advantage  in  living.  All  the  good  days  be- 
\  hind  him  are  sponsors,  who  speak  for  him  when  he 
is  silent,  pay  for  him  when  he  has  no  money,  intro 
duce  him  where  he  has  no  letters,  and  work  for  him 
when  he  sleeps. 

A  tiiird  felicity  of  age  is,  that  it  has  found  ex 
pression.  The  youth  suffers  not  only  from  ungrati- 
fied  desires,  but  from  powers  untried,  and  from  a  pic 
ture  in  his  mind  of  a  career  which  has,  as  yet,  no 
outward  reality.  He  is  tormented  with  the  want 
of  correspondence  between  things  and  thoughts. 
Michel  Angelo's  head  is  full  of  masculine  and 
gigantic  figures  as  gods  walking,  which  make  him 
savage  until  his  furious  chisel  can  render  them 
into  marble  ;  and  of  architectural  dreams,  until  a 
hundred  stone-masons  can  lay  them  in  courses  of 
travertine.  There  is  the  like  tempest  in  every  good 
head  in  which  some  great  benefit  for  the  world  is 
planted.  The  throes  continue  until  the  child  is 


292  OLD   AGE. 

born.  Every  faculty  new  to  each  man  thus  goads 
him  and  drives  him  out  into  doleful  deserts,  until  it 
finds  proper  vent.  All  the  functions  of  human 
duty  irritate  and  lash  him  forward,  bemoaning  and 
chiding,  until  they  are  performed.  He  wants 
friends,  employment,  knowledge,  power,  house  and 
land,  wife  and  children,  honor  and  fame  ;  he  has 
religious  wants,  aesthetic  wants,  domestic,  civil, 
humane  wants.  One  by  one,  day  after  day,  he 
learns  to  coin  his  wishes  into  facts.  He  has  his 
calling,  homestead,  social  connection,  and  personal 
power,  and  thus,  at  the  end  of  fifty  years,  his  soul 
is  appeased  by  seeing  some  sort  of  correspondence 
between  his  wish  and  his  possession.  This  makes 
the  value  of  age,  the  satisfaction  it  slowly  offers  to 
every  craving.  He  is  serene  who  does  not  feel 
himself  pinched  and  wronged,  but  whose  condition, 
in  particular  and  in  general,  allows  the  utterance 
of  his  mind.  In  old  persons,  when  thus  fully  ex 
pressed,  we  often  observe  a  fair,  plump,  perennial, 
waxen  complexion,  which  indicates  that  all  the  fer 
ment  of  earlier  days  has  subsided  into  serenity  of 
thought  and  behavior. 

The  compensations  of  Nature  play  in  age  as  in 
youth.  In  a  world  so  charged  and  sparkling  with 
power,  a  man  does  not  live  long  and  actively  with 
out  costly  additions  of  experience,  which,  though 
not  spoken,  are  recorded  in  his  mind.  What  to  the 
youth  is  only  a  guess  or  a  hope,  is  in  the  veteran  a 


OLD   AGE.  293 

digested  statute.  He  beholds  the  feats  of  the 
juniors  with  complacency,  but  as  one  who,  having 
long  ago  known  these  games,  has  refined  them  into 
results  and  morals.  The  Indian  Red  Jacket,  when 
the  young  braves  were  boasting  their  deeds,  said, 
"  But  the  sixties  have  all  the  twenties  and  forties 
in  them." 

For  a  fourth  benefit,  age  sets  its  house  in  order, 
and  finishes  its  works,  which  to  every  artist  is  a 
supreme  pleasure.  Youth  has  an  excess  of  sensibil 
ity,  before  which  every  object  glitters  and  attracts. 
We  leave  one  pursuit  for  another,  and  the  young 
man's  year  is  a  heap  of  beginnings.  At  the  end 
of  a  twelvemonth,  he  has  nothing  to  show  for  it,  — 
not  one  completed  work.  But  the  time  is  not  lost. 
Our  instincts  drove  us  to  hive  innumerable  experi 
ences,  that  are  yet  of  no  visible  value,  and  which 
we  may  keep  for  twice  seven  years  before  they 
shall  be  wanted.  The  best  things  are  of  secular 
growth.  The  instinct  of  classifying  marks  the  wise 
and  healthy  mind.  Linnaeus  projects  his  system, 
and  lays  out  his  twenty-four  classes  of  plants,  be 
fore  yet  he  has  found  in  Nature  a  single  plant  to 
justify  certain  of  his  classes.  His  seventh  class 
has  not  one.  In  process  of  time,  he  finds  with  de 
light  the  little  white  Trientalis,  the  only  plant  with 
seven  petals  and  sometimes  seven  stamens,  which 
constitutes  a  seventh  class  in  conformity  with  his 
system.  The  conchologist  builds  his  cabinet  whilst 


294  OLD  AGE. 

as  yet  he  has  few  shells.  He  labels  shelves  for 
classes,  cells  for  species  :  all  but  a  few  are  empty. 
But  every  year  fills  some  blanks,  and  with  accelerat 
ing  speed  as  he  becomes  knowing  and  known.  An 
old  scholar  finds  keen  delight  in  verifying  the  im 
pressive  anecdotes  and  citations  he  has  met  with 
in  miscellaneous  reading  and  hearing,  in  all  the 
years  of  youth.  We  carry  in  memory  important 
anecdotes,  and  have  lost  all  clew  to  the  author  from 
whom  we  had  them.  We  have  a  heroic  speech 
from  Rome  or  Greece,  but  cannot  fix  it  on  the  man 
who  said  it.  We  have  an  admirable  line  worthy 
of  Horace,  ever  and  anon  resounding  in  our  mind's 
ear,  but  have  searched  all  probable  and  improbable 
books  for  it  in  vain.  We  consult  the  reading  men : 
but,  strangely  enough,  they  who  know  everything 
know  not  this.  But  especially  we  have  a  certain 
insulated  thought,  which  haunts  us,  but  remains  in 
sulated  and  barren.  Well,  there  is  nothing  for  all 
this  but  patience  and  time.  Time,  yes,  that  is  the 
finder,  the  unweariable  explorer,  not  subject  to 
casualties,  omniscient  at  last.  The  day  comes 
when  the  hidden  author  of  our  story  is  found ; 
when  the  brave  speech  returns  straight  to  the  hero 
who  said  it ;  when  the  admirable  verse  finds  the 
poet  to  whom  it  belongs  ;  and  best  of  all,  when  the 
lonely  thought,  which  seemed  so  wise,  yet  half-wise, 
half-thought,  because  it  cast  no  light  abroad,  is  sud 
denly  matched  in  our  mind  by  its  twin,  by  its 


OLD  AGE.  295 

sequence,  or  next  related  analogy,  which  gives  it 
instantly  radiating  power,  and  justifies  the  super 
stitious  instinct  with  which  we  have  hoarded  it.  We 
remember  our  old  Greek  Professor  at  Cambridge, 
an  ancient  bachelor,  amid  his  folios,  possessed  by 
this  hope  of  completing  a  task,  with  nothing  to 
break  his  leisure  after  the  three  hours  of  his  daily 
classes,  yet  ever  restlessly  stroking  his  leg,  and  as 
suring  himself  "  he  should  retire  from  the  Univer 
sity  and  read  the  authors."  In  Goethe's  Romance, 
Makaria,  the  central  figure  for  wisdom  and  influ 
ence,  pleases  herself  with  withdrawing  into  soli 
tude  to  astronomy  and  epistolary  correspondence. 
Goethe  himself  carried  this  completion  of  studies 
to  the  highest  point.  Many  of  his  works  hung 
on  the  easel  from  youth  to  age,  and  received  a 
stroke  in  every  month  or  year.  A  literary  as 
trologer,  he  never  applied  himself  to  any  task  but 
at  the  happy  moment  when  all  the  stars  consented. 
Bentley  thought  himself  likely  to  live  till  fourscore, 
—  long  enough  to  read  everything  that  was  worth 
reading,  —  "  Et  tune  magnet  mei  sub  terris  ibit 
imago."  Much  wider  is  spread  the  pleasure  which 
old  men  take  in  completing  their  secular  affairs, 
the  inventor  his  inventions,  the  agriculturist  his  ex 
periments,  and  all  old  men  in  finishing  their  houses, 
rounding  their  estates,  clearing  their  titles,  redu 
cing  tangled  interests  to  order,  reconciling  enmities, 
and  leaving  all  in  the  best  posture  for  the  future. 


296  OLD   AGE. 

It  must  be  believed  that  there  is  a  proportion  be 
tween  the  designs  of  a  man  and  the  length  of  his 
life  :  there  is  a  calendar  of  his  years,  so  of  his  per 
formances. 

America  is  the  country  of  young  men,  and  too 
full  of  work  hitherto  for  leisure  and  tranquillity  ; 
yet  we  have  had  robust  centenarians,  and  examples 
of  dignity  and  wisdom.  I  have  lately  found  in  an 
old  note-book  a  record  of  a  visit  to  ex-President 
John  Adams,  in  1825,  soon  after  the  election  of  his 
son  to  the  Presidency.  It  is  but  a  sketch,  and 
nothing  important  passed  in  the  conversation ;  but 
it  reports  a  moment  in  the  life  of  a  heroic  person, 
who,  in  extreme  old  age,  appeared  still  erect  and 
worthy  of  his  fame. 

,Feb.,   1825.     To-day,  at   Quincy,  with 

my  brother,  by  invitation  of  Mr.  Adams's  family. 
The  old  President  sat  in  a  large  stuffed  arm-chair, 
dressed  in  a  blue  coat,  black  small-clothes,  white 
stockings ;  a  cotton  cap  covered  his  bald  head.  "  We 
made  our  compliment,  told  him  he  must  let  us  join 
our  congratulations  to  those  of  the  nation  on  the 
happiness  of  his  house.  He  thanked  us,  and  said  : 
"  I  am  rejoiced,  because  the  nation  is  happy.  The 
time  of  gratulation  and  congratulations  is  nearly 
over  with  me  :  I  am  astonished  that  I  have  lived  to 
see  and  know  of  this  event.  I  have  lived  now 
nearly  a  century ;  [he  was  ninety  in  the  following 


OLD  AGE.  297 

October :  ]  a  long,  harassed,  and  distracted  life."  —  I 
said,  "  The  world  thinks  a  good  deal  of  joy  has  been 
mixed  with  it.*'  —  "  The  world  does  not  know,"  he 
replied,  "  how  much  toil,  anxiety,  and  sorrow  I 
have  suffered."  —  I  asked  if  Mr.  Adams's  letter  of 
acceptance  had  been  read  to  him.  —  "Yes,"  he 
said,  and,  added,  "  My  son  has  more  political  pru 
dence  than  any  man  that  I  know  who  has  existed  in 
my  time  ;  he  never  was  put  off  his  guard :  and  I 
hope  he  will  continue  such  ;  but  what  effect  age  may 
work  in  diminishing  the  power  of  his  mind,  I  do 
not  know ;  it  has  been  very  much  on  the  stretch, 
ever  since  he  was  born.  He  has  always  been  la 
borious,  child  and  man,  from  infancy."  —  When 
Mr.  J.  Q.  Adams's  age  was  mentioned,  he  said,  "  He 
is  now  fifty-eight,  or  will  be  in  July "  ;  and  re 
marked  that  "  all  the  Presidents  were  of  the  same 
age  :  General  Washington  was  about  fifty-eight,  and 
I  was  about  fifty-eight,  and  Mr.  Jefferson,  and 
Mr.  Madison,  and  Mr.  Monroe." — We  inquired 
when  he  expected  to  see  Mr.  Adams.  —  He  said  : 
"  Never :  Mr.  Adams  will  not  come  to  Quincy 
but  to  my  funeral.  It  would  be  a  great  satisfaction 
to  me  to  see  him,  but  I  don't  wish  him  to  come  on 
my  account."  —  He  spoke  of  Mr.  Lechmere,  whom 
he  "  well  remembered  to  have  seen  come  down 
daily,  at  a  great  age,  to  walk  in  the  old  town- 
house,"  —  adding,  "  And  I  wish  I  could  walk  as 
well  as  he  did.  He  was  Collector  of  the  Customs 


298  OLD  AGE. 

for  many  years  under  the  Royal  Government."  — 
E.  said  :  "  I  suppose,  sir,  you  would  not  have  taken 
his  place,  even  to  walk  as  well  as  he."  —  "  No,"  he 
replied,  u  that  was  not  what  I  wanted."  —  He 
talked  of  Whitefield,  and  "  remembered  when  he 
was  a  Freshman  in  College,  to  have  come  into  town 
to  the  Old  South  church,  £1  think,]  to  hear  him,  but 
could  not  get  into  the  house;  —  I  however,  saw 
him,"  he  said,  "  through  a  window,  and  distinctly 
heard  all.  He  had  a  voice  such  as  I  never  heard 
before  or  since.  He  cast  it  out  so  that  you  might 
hear  it  at  the  meeting-house,  [pointing  towards  the 
Quincy  meeting-house,]  and  he  had  the  grace  of  a 
dancing-master,  of  an  actor  of  plays.  His  voice  and 
manner  helped  him  more  than  his  sermons.  I  went 
with  Jonathan  Sewall."  —  "  And  you  were  pleased 
with  him,  sir  ?"  —  "  Pleased  !  I  was  delighted  be 
yond  measure."  —  We  asked  if  at  "VVhitefield's 
return  the  same  popularity  continued.  — "  Not  the 
same  fury,"  he  said,  "  not  the  same  wild  enthusi 
asm  as  before,  but  a  greater  esteem,  as  he  be 
came  more  known.  He  did  not  terrify,  but  was 
admired." 

We  spent  about  an  hour  in  his  room.  He  speaks 
very  distinctly  for  so  old  a  man,  enters  bravely  into 
long  sentences,  which  are  interrupted  by  want  of 
breath,  but  carries  them  invariably  to  a  conclusion, 
without  correcting  a  word. 

He    spoke   of  the   new   novels   of  Cooper,  and 


OLD   AGE.  299 

"  Peep  at  the  Pilgrims,"  and  "  Saratoga,"  with 
praise,  and  named  with  accuracy  the  characters  in 
them.  He  likes  to  have  a  person  always  reading  to 
him,  or  company  talking  in  his  room,  and  is  better 
the  next  day  after  having  visitors  in  his  chamber 
from  morning  to  night. 

He  received  a  premature  report  of  his  son's  elec 
tion,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  without  any  excitement, 
and  told  the  reporter  he  had  been  hoaxed,  for  it 
was  not  yet  time  for  any  news  to  arrive.  The 
informer,  something  damped  in  his  heart,  insisted 
on  repairing  to  the  meeting-house,  and  proclaimed 
it  aloud  to  the  congregation,  who  were  so  overjoyed 
that  they  rose  in  their  seats  and  cheered  thrice. 
The  Reverend  Mr.  Whitney  dismissed  them  imme 
diately. 

When  life  has  been  well  spent,  age  is  a  loss  of 
what  it  can  well  spare,  —  muscular  strength,  organ 
ic  instincts,  gross  bulk,  and  works  that  belong  to 
these.  But  the  central  wisdom,  which  was  old  in 
infancy,  is  young  in  fourscore  years,  and,  dropping 
off  obstructions,  leaves  in  happy  subjects  the  mind 
purified  and  wise.  I  have  heard  that  whoever 
loves  is  in  no  condition  old.  I  have  heard,  that, 
whenever  the  name  of  man  is  spoken,  the  doctrine 
of  immortality  is  announced  ;  it  cleaves  to  his  con 
stitution.  The  mode  of  it  baffles  our  wit,  and  no 
whisper  comes  to  us  from  the  other  side.  But  the 


300  OLD   AGE. 

inference  from  the  working  of  intellect,  hiving 
knowledge,  hiving  skill, — at  the  end  of  life  just 
ready  to  be  born,  —  affirms  the  inspirations  of  af 
fection  and  of  the  moral  sentiment. 


THE  END. 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  and  Company. 


M        . 


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